Low Water, High Surf

Content Warnings; violence, injury detail, sexual threat, bad language, alcohol use, minor crime, consensual sexual activity (implied).



Main Characters

Olympe Viola Reese, 27, a British-French woman. A former Interpol detective who carries shadows and trauma from her personal and professional lives. She yearns for stability and healing.

Victor Davern, 29, a Australian-New Zealander man. A statistical analyst in a financial services company, and a keen surfer. He’s looking for meaning and purpose in life.


Chapter 01: An End and a Beginning


There are two main types of tall women. One kind are statuesque, full bodied, with a defined waist and lyre-shaped hips a skirt will hang from and sway emphatically. They look feminine and delicious as they move.

The other kind are like a teenage boy who got his adult growth spurt last summer, grew 10cm, and now is filling out his muscles. Broad-shouldered and narrow hipped, they look boyish, leggy, and graceful as a colt.

The young blonde standing on the balcony of her small rented apartment was the coltish type. She wore a simple, pale green sleeveless midi dress, cinched at the waist with a ribbon belt. There was an old bullet scar on her left deltoid, and her left forearm was in a virgin white plaster cast; there wasn’t a single Sharpie scrawl from a friend on it. The woman ran fingers through her pixie cut hair, that shade of honey-blonde which is almost ginger and streaks paler in the sun. She sighed and spoke aloud to no-one.

“Second worst month of my entire life.” She sounded like one of those posh English women who front the bulletins on BBC World News.

There was no obvious reason for such low spirits. It was late spring in Honolulu. The rich blue sky was peppered with the best Studio Ghibli clouds, and the air was a pleasant 24 Celcius. The ocean sparkled in the distance, dotted with surfers.

Her smartphone pinged for attention; it was her attorney calling.

“Hello, Takako, do you have news?”

“The best news, Olympe! You’re in the clear. The police have given me your passports and…” a slight hesitation, “The evidence. I’m on my way over to you now. Be there in 10 minutes.”

Olympe smiled for the first time in weeks, and put on a pot of coffee. She hunted up a bag of stale Danish pastries, wrapped it in a damp tea towel, gave them a very quick zap in the microwave to refresh them, and laid out the snack for her guest.

Takako Shimura, a compact Japanese-Hawaiian woman of nearly 40, was giving serious aunt energy. She took off her shoes, hugged Olympe, and they sat down to consult.

“Here are your passports.” Takako laid the two documents -- French and British, because Olympe was a dual national -- on the table. “You can go wherever and whenever you want. The district attorney told me there’s zero chance of a prosecution against you, because of the overwhelming evidence in your defense.” She gently touched Olympe’s cast. “He also asked me to give you his apologies for the delay in releasing you. Kevin’s family has friends in the right places, who’ve made things difficult. I don’t like to say this, but I think you should leave the islands and probably not come back.”

“Yes. I’ll go as soon as I can book a flight. Carry-on luggage only.” Olympe leant forward. “Takako, thank you very much for being with me during this whole nasty business. May I ask you to help me deal with the things I’m going to leave behind? I need to wrap up the lease on my flat and the car. And get rid of my gun.” She looked at the cardboard box of evidence. She knew what it contained; a sleek 9mm pistol and two magazines, one of them three rounds short of full. She pushed the box away from her. “There’ll be some cases of clothes and other things, and my surfboard. It can go by seafreight. I’m in no hurry to surf again.”

“Sure thing, Olympe. I’ll get a paralegal on it. Where are you going to go?”

“Japan. My brother lives there. He’ll let me stay for a while so I can clear my head. After that, I don’t know. I’ll send you my final destination when I work out what it’s going to be.”

As soon as Takako left, Olympe tapped up the JAL app on her smartphone and booked a one-way business class ticket to Haneda. She packed her carry-on case and her big, cross-body Launer handbag with essentials, and took a taxi to the airport. Three hours later she was sitting in the small JAL lounge on the airside, sipping a Campari and soda, exchanging messages with her big brother.

“@Yancy, I’m free! Is it okay if I come and stay with you for a bit?”

“You don’t even need to ask, Pia. When are you arriving?”

Olympe copy-pasted her flight details into the chat.

“Okay. Sorry, I can’t meet you then, Pia, but you can get from Haneda to Shin-Yurigaoka easily on the airport coach.” The three little dots pulsed on the screen as her elder brother began to type out a lot of information about which ticket to buy, where to find the correct bus stop, and so on. Pia cut him off.

“I’ll be fine, Yancy. I can speak Japanese just as well as you.”

12 hours later Olympe was hugging and crying with her brother, his Japanese wife Hikaru, and their toddler daughter, Eimi, in the entrance of their little house near Shin-Yurigaoka station in Kawasaki City. She gave them the meagre souvenirs she had bought in the duty free shop at Honolulu airport. Chocolate coated macadamia nuts, Kona coffee beans, and pure Hawaiian sea salt.

“Perhaps I should sprinkle it to purify myself,” she quipped.

“You did nothing wrong,” Hikaru told her. “You only defended yourself. Come in. I’ve got dinner ready. The futon is laid out for you in the tatami room. Stay as long as you like.”

It was Golden Week, a major national holiday, so the family were able to spend quality time together. Olympe ate well and exercised. She had the cast taken off her arm, revealing a still red pattern of defensive wounds. She played every day with the delightful little Eimi, who made her feel a bit broody. *Where the hell did that come from?* She decided to shake off the unusual sensation with an extended holiday. *Though all my life is a holiday now,* she remembered. *I'll go somewhere different.*

Olympe visited the Australian Embassy for a tourist visa.

A few days later she was in Sydney, New South Wales. Although it was late autumn in the southern hemisphere, the weather reminded her of a pleasant early summer day in the UK. Puffy white cumulus clouds were ranked across a blue sky, and the air was a mild 20 degrees. The scent of eucalyptus trees drifted in the streets.

The overnight flight had been pleasant. Olympe’s jetlag was minimal, due to the one hour difference in timezone. She booked into a west-facing Sunset Room in the EVE hotel in the Surry Hills district. 27 square metres was enough space for her meagre luggage. Enough space to begin to decompress her memories, and plan a proper exploration of the city. She opened her laptop and logged on to a property rental site.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 02: Breakup

Victor Davern’s alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. but he was already awake. Emma had spent the night with a girl friend again. The early light filtered through the cheap blinds of his run-down flat, casting stripes across the ceiling. He stretched, scratched his jaw, thought, *I really need a shave,* and dragged himself to the kitchen to make coffee. Instant, as usual. He stood barefoot by the counter, sipping, scrolling through overnight emails from work.

It was going to be another dull workday in the office, another spreadsheet-heavy Friday. He pulled on khaki chinos, a pale blue button-down shirt, and his most comfortable smart leather shoes. The familiar commute; a bus to the station, and a crowded train, to reach the high-rise office building in the central business district. The office hum of air conditioning and clicking keyboards was broken only by the occasional phone call. Vic kept his headphones on, ploughing through datasets. His boss swung by around 11.

“Any weekend plans, Victor?” Olivia asked.

Vic gave a half-smile. “Surfing.”

“Forecast’s looking a bit rough.”

“Yeah,” Vic replied, “I like it that way.”

The morning passed in formulas and figures. At lunch, he ducked out to a sandwich shop and checked his phone. A text from Emma. “We need to talk tonight.”

He exhaled slowly. *I know what that means.*

It was about 18:30 when Victor pushed open the door to his unit, kicked off his shoes, and dropped his laptop bag by the table. Emma was sitting on a kitchen stool, scrolling furiously on her phone, an untouched glass of white wine in front of her. She looked up, eyes flashing angrily.

“You’re late again.”

Vic frowned. “I texted,” he said, spreading his hands. “Work ran over.”

“Work always runs over, Vic.” Emma stood up, began to pace to and fro. “And then it’s the gym. Or surfing. Or ‘grabbing a drink with the guys.’ There’s always something.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a rough week.”

Emma threw her phone onto the counter with a clatter. “It’s always a rough week. I’m sick of you being around but never here.”

“Come on, that’s not fair,” he muttered defensively.

“Not fair?” she interrupted. “Vic, we’re living together but I feel like a housemate. Like a backup plan. What I wanted was to be a couple. Be a real part of each other’s life.” Her voice dropped low, deadly calm. “I’ve already got a place lined up. Maddy’s cousin needs a flatmate. I’m leaving you.”

A long silence stretched out between them.

“Yeah,” Vic said finally, his jaw tight. “Okay. Fine.”

Emma grabbed her bag and keys, swigged half her wine like it was water. “I’ll pick up the rest of my stuff later.”

The door slammed hard enough to rattle the cheap picture frames.

Vic exhaled slowly. Something twisted in his heart, and he had to push it away, find a distraction from the raw emotion. He ran a hand through his hair, pulled it into a messy bun, and headed to the fridge. Beer. He stood on his little balcony under the early evening sky, letting the distant hum of traffic and chatter from a neighbour’s TV fill the emptiness his ex-girlfriend had left behind. The dark sea beckoned.

*Tomorrow I’m hitting the waves. Early. Hard.*

Saturday morning Vic was up at five, driving his rattly Audi eastward as the sky grew pink over the city. The old car coughed and groaned, but made it to the beach. He pulled on his wetsuit, tied his hair back into a tight ponytail, and jogged down to the water. The surf wasn’t great. It was messy, unpredictable, but he was grateful for it. Every paddle out cleared his head a little more. Every wave he chased was a moment he didn't have to think about the flat, the job, or the empty side of the bed.

By mid-morning, he was sitting cross-legged on the sand, surfboard stuck upright beside him, sipping from a takeaway coffee cup. His phone buzzed with messages he didn't check. It was enough to feel the sun warming his shoulders, the salt water drying on his skin, and the rhythm of the waves rolling in.

Life was moving forward in the city. But Vic was just waiting for the next set.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 03: Beach Vibes

Olympe left all her legal and housekeeping affairs in Hawaii to Takako’s very efficient paralegal Marcie. She sent a thank you letter and a bonus for the extra work.

She took a six-month lease on a spacious 2LDK apartment in the central Sydney suburb called Surry Hills, a gentrifying district filled with hip cocktail bars, trendy cafés, art spaces, secondhand record shops, and stylish boutiques. She engaged an interior designer to fit the unit out to someone else’s good taste. Olympe was spectacularly bad at decorating.

She went energetically shopping. She bought clothes, a second hand Vespa Elettrica scooter, and put down a deposit on a Jimny XL for long journeys. When she felt shopped out, and wanting exercise, she decided to go to the beach. *I mean, the point of living here is the seaside lifestyle,* she told herself. *Swimming is great exercise. Maybe I'll even go surfing if I can find a good instructor. Try to exorcise the demons.*

She packed her new beach stuff into a canvas tote and set off on her scooter.

Victor Davern was waxing his board on the sand, squinting toward the messy mid-morning swell. His mate Dan was already jogging down to the water, board underarm.

“C’mon, slowpoke!” Dan called over his shoulder. “You miss all the good sets, you’re buying lunch!

Vic laughed, jogged after him, and they waded into the surf together. The waves weren’t great; they were choppy, unpredictable, a bit crowded, but it didn't matter. For an hour they paddled, chased waves, wiped out, and paddled again. Salt stung Vic’s lips; the sea’s cool bite fixed his head better than beer or any meditation app ever could.

Back on the beach, they sat on their boards, letting the sun dry their skin. Dan cracked open a cooler he’d stashed in the dunes, tossing Vic an illicit can of beer.

“Still thinking about Emma?” Dan asked, cracking his own.

Vic shrugged. “Not really. Not today. Yeah, no, yeah. Nah. Okay, yeah. A bit.”

Dan grinned. “Knew it wouldn’t last. She was a pain in the ass, mate.”

“That’s not fair, Dan. She wasn’t that bad.” Vic took a sip. “We just… couldn't get on the right wavelength.

“Yeah, well. You’re better off now. Someone hotter’ll come along. Smarter. Less… I dunno.”

Vic raises an eyebrow. “You’re describing a unicorn. I don’t see many of them around the beach.”

Dan laughed, tipping his can toward the sea. “Nah, just gotta keep your eyes open. Plenty of bonzer girls in this city. You’ll see.”

Vic leant back on his elbows, gazing out at the horizon. He wasn’t sure he was ready to search for a new girlfriend yet. But sitting here, with warm sand under him and the sea breeze in his hair, he felt lighter than he had in a week.

Dan elbowed him, and nodded toward the car park. “Hey, speaking of girls, there’s someone, bro.”

Vic glanced toward the carpark. A tall young woman with a honey-blonde pixie cut was locking up a shiny silver scooter, slinging a bag over her shoulder. Sunglasses hid her eyes. Something about her movements, poised, restless,, caught his attention.

He looked away, smiling faintly. “Yeah? Maybe.”

Vic cracked his neck, stretching his arms overhead as he watched the crowd shifting around them, families setting up umbrellas, a couple tossing a frisbee, kids squealing in the shallows. Just another day at the beach.

Dan nudged him. “Oi. The chick with the scooter. She’s getting changed right there!”

Vic glanced toward the dunes. The tall blonde had dropped her bag, tugged out a towel and unfurled it across the sand. Without hesitation, she pulled off her tee-shirt and folded it into the bag. Bare-breasted for a momoent, she stretched casually, unbothered by a few glances, then plucked a blue and white tankini swim top from the bag and slipped into it. She stripped her panties down, and pulled on matching boyshorts.

Dan whistled low. “Well, that’s a power move.”

Vic chuckled. “She’s just changing, mate. It’s rude to watch.”

“Yeah, well, if she wants to go full Euro and ditch the cozzie entirely, someone better tell her about Lady Bay.”

Vic shook his head, amused, watching her trot down toward the water, her hair gleaming under the sun. “She’s not even going topless.”

“She’s still got more guts than half the blokes here.” Dan took a swig from his can, grinning. “Bet she surfs better too.”

Vic watched as she waded deeper, got into the surf, her strong strokes cutting through the whitewater. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Dan elbowed him. “Go say hi then, when she comes out.”

“Nah.” Vic leant back on his elbows, gazing out at the sea. “She’s not here for us. She just wants a swim.”

But his eyes followed the woman’s silhouette as she swam out past the breakers, the afternoon sun haloing her in gold.

Vic watched as the blonde cut through the waves, swimming a solid lap beyond the break before turning back toward shore. By the time she strode out of the surf, swiping brine from her short hair, the afternoon crowds had thickened, families, teens, sunbathers spreading towels across every patch of sand.

She dried off briskly, changed back into her street clothes right there with her towel, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed back to the sleek silver scooter parked at the edge of the lot.

Dan watched too, eyebrows raised. “Guess she’s not sticking around.”

“Guess not.” Vic propped his surfboard upright in the sand, shading his eyes as the blonde rode off down the road, a streak of chrome and a white, open face helmet weaving into traffic.

Dan clapped him on the back. “Told ya, mate. They show up… then they disappear. You should have hit on her when you had the chance.”

Vic chuckled softly, shaking his head. But as he turned back to pack up his gear, he was still thinking about her.

Maybe she’ll be back.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 04: Slip, Slop, Slap


When Olympe moved into her newly rented unit the air smelt of fresh paint. The furniture and decorations were embarrassingly new. The big, wall-mounted TV still had a protective film on the screen. The utilities were hooked up, though; water, power, internet, everything worked, and her life seemed to have achieved a stable plateau. She explored the neighbourhood during daily runs, and went swimming at the local public pool in Prince Alfred Park. The next Saturday morning, she decided to take another trip to the beach.

Early on Saturday, Vic parked his battered Audi in the same spot as usual, grabbing his board from the roof rack. The surf was a little better today, cleaner sets rolling in under a cloudless sky. Dan was already waiting near the lifeguard tower, sipping a takeaway coffee.

“Good timing,” Dan called as Vic approached. “Sets are decent. And…” he gestured subtly toward the carpark. “Looks like your mystery blonde’s back.”

Vic followed his gaze. Sure enough, the woman from last weekend was locking up her silver scooter again, a canvas tote slung over one shoulder. She was wearing loose shorts and a Breton striped tee, sunglasses pushed up into her messy blonde pixie cut. She paused, scanning the beach like she was taking careful mental notes.

Dan grinned. “Told ya she’d come back.”

Vic shook his head, smiling faintly. “You reckon she surfs?”

“Hope so. Be a waste of a good beach vibe if she doesn’t.” Dan elbowed him. “Go chat her up, Davern.”

Vic picked up his board, squinting into the sun. “Maybe later.”

He headed down to the water, stealing one last glance over his shoulder as the blonde girl walked barefoot across the sand, towel slung loose in one hand, her gaze scanning the horizon like she was searching for something. He jumped in to get wet and feel the water, paddled around a bit, and went out for a short run to get a sense of the ocean’s mood. After a while he wondered why Dan hadn’t got out yet, and went back to see if there was something wrong.

Vic jogged up the beach, surfboard under his arm, water dripping off his hair and shoulders. Dan was standing near the dunes, chatting with the blonde woman from the other day, the girl they had noticed earlier. She was holding a bottle of sunscreen in one hand, gesturing toward her own back with a faintly amused expression.

Dan caught Vic’s eye and grinned wide. “Oi, Vic! She needs a hand.”

Vic slowed to a walk, raising an eyebrow. “With what?”

Dan jerked his thumb toward her. “Racerback. Can’t reach.”

She lifted the bottle slightly in explanation, her shades catching the light, throwing off dark glints.

“Design flaw,” she said drily. "Well, it's not really a design flaw. It's a feature, not a bug. Racerback costumes are really comfortable but I'm not used to the power of the sun here." Her accent was British, English actually, in fact rather posh judging from TV shows like Downton Abbey. "I should have worn my Japanese zip-up one-piece and a rash top."

Vic smiled faintly as he rubbed the sunscreen between his hands, stepping closer. “Yeah, sun doesn’t muck around here,” he said, tone warm but light. “You’ll want a rashie next time, for sure.”

Dan grinned, tossing a wink the girl’s way. “Love the accent, by the way. Very posh. You just visiting, or staying a while?”

Vic shot Dan a quick look, amused, but wary of his mate’s usual cheek. He started working the sunscreen over the woman’s shoulders and upper back, his touch firm but respectful, focused on the task.

“Where’d you move from?” Vic asked, glancing briefly down at her shoulder to make sure he was covering the tricky spots between the overlapping straps.

"Um… I was in Hawaii until a few weeks ago, if that's what you mean. But obviously I'm from the UK originally. As you can tell by my accent. I'm here on a... let's call it an extended sabbatical. I take it you guys are locals?"

Vic’s hands paused momentarily as he smoothed sunscreen over her left shoulder, fingers brushing over an odd scar on her deltoid. He didn’t comment, just noted it quietly, filing it away without judgment.

“Well, that explains it,” Dan said with a grin, folding his arms across his chest. “Thought you sounded like you walked out of a BBC costume drama.”

Vic huffed a quiet laugh. “Ignore him,” he said gently, finishing the last swipe across her back. “Yeah, we’re locals. More or less.” He stepped away, handing the sunscreen back. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.”

Dan nodded toward the water. “Vic’s part fish. Surfs every chance he gets.”

Vic rolled his eyes. “Dan here mostly drinks ginger beer and watches.”

Dan shrugged, unbothered. “Hey, everyone should stick with their talent.”

Vic glanced at the blonde again, his gaze warm but a little curious. “Sabbatical, huh? Sounds like a good gig. Planning to stay long?”

"Sydney seems like a pretty cool city,” she said. “I’ve taken a flat for six months and I don't plan to waste the money. I'm still just settling in, though. I don't know anyone or the places to go except what you can easily find on Google. Like the opera house, obviously, but I haven’t been there yet. Thanks for doing my back, er, mate."

Vic grinned at her ‘mate,’ clearly amused. “No worries. And good call on the unit, you’ll be glad you gave yourself time here.”

Dan tipped an imaginary hat. “Six months? That’s plenty of time to find the real Sydney. We’re not all kangaroos and koalas, promise.”

Vic gave him a dry look. “We don’t even have koalas here, Dan.”

Dan waved him off. “Details.” He turned back to her, flashing an easy grin. “Tell ya what, you ever wanna swap Google Maps for real local intel, hit us up. Best beaches, worst pubs, sketchiest kebab joints… Vic’s a pro tour guide.”

Vic shook his head with a tolerant grin. “You’re the one who’d send her to a dodgy pub for a laugh.”

He looked back at the Pom, his green eyes catching hers through her sunglasses. “But seriously, welcome. If you’re up for surfing lessons, or just want to hang down here sometime, you’re in the right spot.”

Dan nodded enthusiastically. “And don’t be shy about asking for sunscreen next time. Vic’s got magic hands.”

Vic groaned softly. “Jesus, Dan!”

Olympe lowered her sunglasses and gave Dan a hard stare over the top of them like Tommy Lee Jones. Her eyes were hazel, green, brown and flecks of gold, like they might shift colour depending on her mood. She had done minimal make-up. Her lashes were lightly enhanced with brown mascara.

"Are you boys surfers? I would never have guessed." She gestured at the two boards stood in the sand nearby. "I did a bit of surfing in Hawaii but I'm only a kook. Do you know a good place I could go and get some help? My name's Olympe, by the way.”

Dan let out a bark of laughter at the Tommy Lee Jones stare, holding up both hands. “Alright, alright, I’ll behave.” He winked anyway.

Vic grinned, clearly enjoying the exchange. “Figured you had some experience, the way you walked into the water the other day. Hawaii’s no joke.”

At her name, his eyebrows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering behind his emerald eyes. “Olympe. That’s… not one you hear every day.”

Dan nodded approvingly. “Sounds fancy. Olympe.” He tried it out with exaggerated care, then flashed a grin. “Nice to meet ya. I’m Dan. That’s Vic.”

Vic stepped forward, offering a hand. “Good to meet you, Olympe.” His handshake was firm but easy. The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “And yeah, we can point you in the right direction. Depends what you’re after. Bondi’s got surf schools but they’re touristy. Maroubra’s better if you want less crowd, more real locals. Or…” he glanced at the choppy water, thoughtful. “We could show you ourselves right here, if you’re game.”

Dan elbowed him. “Look at you, volunteering already.”

Vic shrugged, his smile deepening. “Might as well start with people who won’t rip you off.”

Olympe had caught the guys’ names from their earlier banter. Her detective skills still worked, although she was retired. "Nice to meet you, Dan, Vic." She held out her hand for a shake. "I don't mind a quick go now if you can lend me a board. Mine's on a cargo ship somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. You can watch me do a run and criticise my form."

Vic shook her hand again, his grip warm and steady, eyebrows lifting in quiet appreciation at her suggestion. “You’re keen. I like it.”

Dan whistled. “Straight into the deep end, huh? Respect.” He gestured at Vic’s board. “You lending her yours, or…?”

Vic glanced back at his board in the sand. “She can take mine. It’s a solid all-rounder, good for learning.” He looked back at Olympe. “I’ll spot you from the water. You’ve got swim strength, I can tell, but if it gets messy just wave me down, yeah?”

Dan grinned. “And I’ll be the peanut gallery on shore.”

Vic ignored him, turning his attention fully to his new student. “Alright, Olympe. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He walked over, picked up his board, and held it out to her with a small, encouraging nod. “No pressure. Just have fun with it.”

Olympe steeled herself. The last time she had gone surfing, the post-beach date night with her surf instructor ended in sexual aggression, violence, gunfire, and lavishly foaming blood. She still had an occasional nightmare. Now Olympe tried to concentrate on the technicalities of her previous instruction, hefted the board to get a feel for it, and attached the tether to her ankle. She set off for the surf. Unconsciously she muttered: "I have to do this. I can do this. I will do this."

Vic watched her walk down toward the shoreline, board under her arm, the tether held looped in her other hand. He caught the movement of her lips, like she was talking to herself, but he couldn’t make out the words.

Dan shaded his eyes, whistling low. “Girl’s determined. You sure she’s a beginner?”

Vic tilted his head, thoughtful. “She’s got guts, that’s for sure.” He watched her pause at the water’s edge, sizing up the waves before stepping in. “Doesn’t look nervous… but there’s something in the way she holds herself.”

Dan grinned. “Bet she surprises you.”

Vic smiled faintly. “I hope she does.”

He jogged down toward the waterline, to paddle out after her, while Dan settled back in the sand with a cheeky grin, ready to commentate from afar.

Out in the surf, Vic kept a careful eye as Olympe paddled out, reading the swell, waiting to see what she would do next.

Olympe paddled out to the break and waited for her wave. She was tightly wound, focussed on her judgement of the Zen moment. She blocked Kevin's face from her mind; his predatory assault, her defence, and the blood-soaked end.

"You bastard, Kevin. I'm glad I killed you. You fuccing well deserved it."

The wave broke. Olympe popped up onto her borrowed board. She rode the surf well, not showy but confident, reclaiming the sea for her own space.

Vic watched as Olympe caught the wave, rising cleanly into position. His brows lifted in quiet surprise as she found her balance, not flashy, but steady, sure. She rode the wave in with quiet confidence.

Dan whistled low from the sand. “Bloody hell. She’s no kook.”

Vic paddled closer as she glided past, grinning up at her from the water. “Nice! You’ve definitely done this before.”

He didn’t press further, didn't ask about the tight focus in her face or the fierceness in her stance. Just met her with quiet respect, sensing there was something she was not ready to explain.

Dan jogged into the shallows as she neared the shore. “That was wicked! Where’d you really learn to surf, secret surf school? Navy SEALs? James Bond training camp?” He flashed a cheeky grin.

Vic shook his head, coming up beside them. “Ignore him. You killed it out there.” He paused, studying her face for a moment longer. “You alright?”

"I, er, I learnt at Waikiki. But there was a thing which happened and I wanted to get over it and I think I have done. From the lend of your board. So. Thank you, Vic.”

Vic’s smile softened, his eyes steady on hers. “Anytime,” he said quietly, meaning it. “Glad it helped.”

Dan threw an arm loosely around Vic’s shoulders, grinning. “Told ya he was a lifesaver. Or at least a board-saver.” He dropped the arm again, looking back at Olympe with a little more respect beneath the banter. “You’re tough, mate. Bet you’ll be schooling us before long.”

Vic took his board back, giving her an easy nod. “You’re welcome out here with us anytime, Olympe.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Or you want space, that’s good too. Up to you.”

Dan was already scanning the horizon. “Another set coming in if you’re keen for round two.”

Vic glanced back toward the water, then back at Olympe, his smile returning. “Or we can call it a win for today.”

"I think I've had enough for one day. I should get a new board. Of my own. I can't wait for my one from Hawaii to arrive. Isn't there a surf shop around here?

Dan brightened immediately. “Oh yeah, couple options. There’s a big chain store up the road, but it’s tourist prices.”

Vic nodded toward the street inland. “There’s a smaller local shop two blocks up. Better service, decent prices, and they won’t sell you some shiny crap just ‘cause it looks cool. I know the owner, he’ll sort you out proper.”

Dan grinned. “And if you flash that accent, he might throw in a discount.”

Vic rolled his eyes, smiling faintly. “Ignore him. But seriously, I can walk you over if you want.” He tilted his head, casual and kind. “Or just point you there if you’d rather explore solo.”

"You guys think my accent is sexy? It's just English." Olympe winked at Dan, did a head swing, as if she was waving the pony tail she didn't actually have, and suddenly she was talking like a coquettish French girl.

"Per'aps I try zis leettle shop for a discount wiz a proper foreign accent...non?" Olympe batted her eyes. Then she was back to her normal voice with a smile on just one side of her mouth.

"Thanks, Vic. If you'll take me to your favourite shop, maybe the people there will do you a bit of good in return some time. Let me put my shoes on."

Dan let out a bark of laughter, clapping his hands together. “Olympe, you legend. I knew you were trouble.”

Vic shook his head, grinning despite himself. “That was… unexpected.” His eyes twinkled, appreciating the joke. “And yeah, alright, if you’re pulling accents like that, you’re definitely getting a discount.”

He lifted his board under his arm, nodding toward the dunes. “Shop’s not far. And nah, don’t worry about paying me back. Helping’s just what we do.”

Dan raised his can in a lazy toast. “Catch ya later, Olympe. Don’t let him talk you into a competition board.”

Vic grinned again, glancing over his shoulder as he headed toward the path. “I wouldn’t dare.”

"It was nice meeting you, Dan. See you later, maybe." Pia slipped into a pair of neon pink rubber ballerina sandals, slapped on a white bucket hat with a pop art design of colourful flowers, and hid her upper body with a zip-up jacket. But her long legs were still on display; beautifully muscled, free of orange peel skin, and covered with a natural peach fuzz of fine blonde hair. She picked up her beach bag. "I'm ready."

Dan gave a playful salute. “See you around, Olympe. Don’t be a stranger.”

Vic waited at the top of the path, leaning lightly against the rail, his board resting beside him. When Pia approached, his gaze flicked over her, hat, vest, jelly sandals, and those strong, sun-kissed legs, before settling back on her face with a faint, appreciative smile.

“Alright then,” he said, pushing off the rail and falling into step beside her. “Let’s get you sorted with a board that’ll make you feel at home here.”

As they walked up toward the street, he glanced sidelong at her. “You weren’t kidding about starting fresh, huh? I’m glad you ended up at this beach.”

He gestured ahead toward a tucked-away surf shop with a hand-painted sign, the salty breeze still swirling around them. “Come on, you’re gonna like this place.”

<<To be continued…>>

Chapter 05: Board Talk

Vic walked beside Olympe. Her steps matched his easily, her long stride making the distance feel shorter than it was. The autumn sun threw warm light across the pavement, shadows stretching from street signs and parked bikes.

“Do you come to the beach a lot, Vic? When did you start surfing?”

Vic glanced over. “Yeah, pretty often. Dad got me started when I was a kid.” A gull screeched overhead. He kicked a bottlecap down the road, watching it skitter and bounce away from the kerb.

“Your father’s a surfer?” Olympe asked.

“Not really,” Vic said. “Just liked the idea of it. He’s mostly a sailor.”

The surf shop came into view: whitewashed walls, a mural, now patchy from weather, a rack of boards for rent outside, some waxy and faded, others gleaming new. The smell of salt and stale sunscreen clung to the awning that shielded the doorway.

The sign looked artfully hand-made; a panel of driftwood planks painted with bright colours that had sun-bleached to pastels: The Board Walk. It practically screamed 'We are not corporate'.

*But most surfboards are mode of stuff like fibreglass,* Olympe thought. *And who wants to carve one from a plank of tree trunk? Not me!* She accepted the contradiction; high tech boards sold with a woody aesthetic. At least the bloke behind the counter was human. He gave a cheery greeting that didn’t come from an American chain store playbook. The tall guy whom she let bring her here was a regular customer, it seemed. He knew the staff.

“Hey Jules,” Vic’s voice rang out, cheerful in hope for his new board.

“Hey Vic,” Jules replied. “Here ya go, mate. I finished her this morning.” He nodded a silent greeting to Olympe, ran his hand down the length of a gleaming new surfboard, lifted it, and presented it to Vic. Olympe stood back to allow Vic the pleasure of his first caress of a new companion.

Vic tipped the board upright, sighting down its length. Good curve. He balanced it against his thigh, drumming his fingers lightly on the deck. “Not bad, huh?” he said to Olympe over his shoulder.

He glanced back at Olympe, catching her eye for a second before looking away again. “You ever tried one of these?”

He meant the board, of course, but something in the question felt bigger than that. Olympe shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her boyish hips rocking.

"Um, it looks beautiful, Vic. I'm not really knowledgeable about different types of surfboard. Why don't you explain it to me?"

Vic rested his hand flat on the deck, feeling the slight give of the wax under his palm. He smiled faintly at her question.

“Well, this one’s a funboard,” he said, tapping the nose. “Sort of a middle ground between a longboard and a shortboard. Good for someone who’s not a total beginner but doesn’t want to fight the board every wave.” He turned it sideways so she could see the subtle curve of the rails. “See this outline? Gives it a bit more speed and manoeuverability. Not too twitchy, though.”

He leaned it gently back against the wall. “Probably too much info, huh?” He rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin flickering across his face. “I kinda geek out about this stuff.” He glanced at her again. “But if you want to try it, I’ll share.”

Olympe arched and relaxed one eyebrow like Roger Moore playing James Bond.

"It would be good to try out a funboard before I commit to buying a new one of my own. I don't know what my board from Hawaii really was. Is. Something good for a complete beginner. It was a fair bit longer than your new one. Like over nine feet. And it won't get here for a while. But Vic, this is your special custom board. Isn't that a very personal thing?" she queried him, "Don’t you want to get to know her like a new girlfriend? Don't worry about me. I'll do something, find something that works. You've been very kind already."

Jules observed the interplay from behind the counter, and kept his silence. Vic’s grin softened. He looked down at the board again, tracing the logo near the tail with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he said, “it kinda is like that.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “You don’t just ride a board, you figure her out. Takes time.”

He straightened and met Olympe’s gaze. “But sharing’s not off-limits. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.” His eyes held hers a beat longer. “It’s not the board that makes the surfer. You’d be welcome.”

He reached for a leash hanging from a display hook. “Anyway, Jules can sort you out with something from the rental rack if you’d rather. We’ll get you on the water one way or another.”

Jules kept polishing a wax comb with the hem of his T-shirt, watching the exchange with a faint smirk.

"I don't have a way to carry a board around. I mean my new car hasn't arrived yet." Olympe paused, sure there must be differences in surf culture between Hawaii and Australia, unsure what they are. "If you want to let me have a go on your new board, I'd love to, Vic. But today I've got to go home for piano practice."

Vic tilted his head, his smile widening with something close to admiration. “Piano practice, huh? Didn’t have you pegged for that.” He propped the board securely against the wall and dusted his hands on his shorts. “No rush. Board’ll be here whenever you’re ready. Or we’ll find you another ride when the time’s right.” He gestured toward the door with a casual nod. “Need a lift home?”

Behind the counter, Jules raised his brows but still didn't speak, letting the moment play out. Olympe thought for a second whether to take up Vic's offer. Was he making a play for her? Was she ready for that kind of engagement? What were the practical difficulties of leaving her scooter at the beach?

"No, I'm good thanks, Vic. I've got my Vespa. But I expect we’ll meet at the beach again.” She took a beat and smiled. "You fuccing Aussie surf pirate, Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Olympe spun on a heel and zipped out from the shop. *Did I just ruin that moment?* she asked herself. *Whatever, I only met the guy today. Though he’s cute. My type, tall and fit. Those green eyes!* Olympe mounted her electric scooter and jetted off uptown. Soon she was only thinking about where she might go for dinner.

<< To be continued... >>

Chapter 06: Japanese Interlude

Vic stood there a moment longer, watching her go, her laughter still echoing faintly in his ears. He blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Jules leant his elbows on the counter, grinning openly now. “Mate… She just called you a surf pirate.” He sniggered.

Vic exhaled a chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, she did. I think I’m okay with that.” He glanced toward the door where Olympe had disappeared into the street, the hum of her scooter fading into the early evening sounds.

“She’s got quite a kick,” Jules said.

Vic picked up his new board again, balancing it against his hip. “Yeah,” he murmured, his smile lingering. “She really does.” He carried the board out into the low evening light, already thinking about the next wave.

Olympe got home, plugged her scooter in to charge, showered the salt and sweat away, and changed into a fairly conservative tea dress before heading out for dinner and, maybe, some company. Her last intimate encounter with a man had begun joyfully, but it ended with the blue lights and sirens of emergency vehicles.

*All things considered I should probably stick with my Hitachi Magic Wand,* she advised herself. *I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship.* Not feeling Vic a lot right now, she headed for the Japanese-style bar My Zakaya, a few minutes walk from her new flat. The young chef-owner actually was native-born Japanese, an ex-pat or a long-term immigrant -- he didn't really know yet -- melting into modern Sydney's multicultural pot. Olympe could chat with Nobu in the everyday slang of downtown Tokyo. This took her out of her discomfort zone. She would stick with safe topics like the weather, unless Nobu wanted to click it up a notch.

Nobu glanced up from behind the counter as the tall blonde entered, giving her a small nod that was somewhere between polite and familiar. “Irasshaimase, Olympe-san,” he greeted her.

The bar’s playlist was a mix of Shibuya-kei and mellow jazz. A couple at the far end were chatting softly over shared plates. A man in a suit scrolled on his phone, his whisky sour untouched. Nobu wiped his hands on a towel and gestured to a stool.

“It was hot today, wasn’t it?”

Olympe heard the Tokyo cadence and felt a knot of tension in her chest loosen. It was easier, somehow, to step sideways into a language and a culture where she didn’t have to explain herself fully.

“Hot, yes! I went to the beach. I’m not used to the strength of the sun here.”

He poured her a glass of cold barley tea without asking, then set a menu in front of her. “You want a real drink? Something to eat?” Nobu wasn’t pushy. He waited, giving Olympe space, quietly assessing her mood without judgement. Delicious smells drifted out from the tiny kitchen, grilled fish, soy sauce, ponzu, ginger.

Olympe played it cool, her Kabukicho hostess nights recalled. They chatted about popular cocktails, the high price of saké, international cricket, and good venues for open mic nights. She ate salad and many gyoza, and drank three flasks of sake. Her breath got stinky and repellent to any except the most ardent or perverted suitor. Eventually she had had enough.

"I should go now, Danna-san. Thanks for the feast." Olympe wobbled home, her urbane instincts skewed by sea air, alcohol, and her dislocation in time and space. Nobu watched her go with that same calm, nodding once as she slipped out into the night.

“Good night, Olympe-san. Take care,” he murmured, though she was already out of earshot. Outside, the city was cool, the air holding a faint salt tang even this far inland. Streetlights haloed in the dark, and Olympe’s footsteps beat a quiet rhythm from the pavement. The skirt and sleeves of her dress fluttered in the breeze, a soft contrast to the hard edges of buildings and passing cars.

Home felt both too large and too small when she let herself in. The sofa cushions gave under her weight as she sank down, the night hush of the apartment wrapping around her like a cocoon. The crash of waves still rang in her ears somehow, mingling with the buzz of a scooter passing outside. Tomorrow might bring new waves, or new invitations. Tonight, there was just the weight of the day, the buzz of saké in her head, and the hum of her thoughts folding over on themselves like the waves pulling back from the shore.

"He could have called me Olympe-chan," she murmured, with a slight degree of regret. The thought lingered, a soft ache behind her eyes as she lay sprawled across the sofa, one arm flung over her forehead.

“He could have called me Olympe-chan,” she murmured again. Her voice, half amused, half wistful, spoke only to the shadows. She imagined the subtle honorific in Nobu’s mouth. For the Japanese, the switch from -san to -chan was familiar, affectionate, intimate. Like the use of 'vous' or 'tu' forms in her native French. A kind of belonging she hadn’t earned yet, it seemed. The ceiling fan whirred quietly above her, beating at the trapped air.

“Maybe next time,” she told herself, though she wasn’t sure if it was a hope or a warning. English held different inflections of meaning, based on context and social clues rather than grammar.

Outside, the city hummed, alive but sleepy and indifferent.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 07: The Lads

Vic, Dan and Jules sat on the low wall outside Dan’s unit, a slab of cold beer between them, sweating in the warm night air.

Dan cracked open a tin. “So. Olympe.” He said her name carefully, still unsure of it. “What’s her story?”

Vic stared at the dark street for a long moment before answering. “Don’t know yet.”

Jules flicked wax shavings off his board. “She buying a stick from me or just scoping out the scene?”

Vic shrugged. “Maybe both.”

Dan nudged him. “She’s hot, man. Seriously. Those legs?” He whistled low. “And that little strut she’s got? Damn.”

Vic let out a breath, a half-smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. Yeah. He had noticed. The way her high leg swim suit showed off those long, toned legs. The sleek breasts under her tankini top. And the subtle sway of her hips, natural, confident.
But she wasn’t only that.

“She’s not a prize, Dan,” Vic said quietly, looking down at the tin of beer in his hands. “Not some trophy to chase. Not to mention you’re married.”

Dan lifted both hands placatingly. “Alright, alright. Just saying she’s a stunner. A guy can appreciate a beautiful sea view without, er… Goin’ and divin’ in. Don’t tell Kiri I said that.”

Vic’s thumb rolled across the rim of the can, smearing the condensation. “She’s more than a pretty view, though. She’s got guts.”

Jules glanced up. “Yeah? How d’ya mean?”

“She didn’t flinch,” Vic said. “Didn’t even hesitate when I offered her my board. First time surfing here. Different beach, different breaks. She was ready to throw herself into it.” He smiled faintly. “And she held her own with the banter. Joked with us like she’s known us longer.”

Dan tilted his head. “Yep. Well… You keen?”

Vic was quiet for a long time. “Don’t know.” He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the streetlight. “Not sure I’m ready.”

Dan’s voice was softer now. “Still thinking about Emma?”

Vic closed his eyes briefly. Emma’s face flickered in memory, the sharp tilt of her smile, the way her laughter would light up the room, until it didn’t anymore. The last month of walking on eggshells, her restlessness, her half-packed suitcase always brooding in the corner.
“Looking back now, she had one foot out the door nearly from the start,” Vic murmured. “Couldn’t sit still. Always chasing something else.”

Dan nodded, quiet.

Vic let the thought fade, opened his eyes again. “Olympe… she’s different. Feels grounded, even if she’s only visiting. She’s got this… curiosity. Like she’s always testing the edges of things.”

Jules wiped his board down, unimpressed. “Still don’t trust mixing business and pleasure.”

Vic smiled faintly. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

Dan raised an eyebrow. “But you’re thinking about it.”

Vic shrugged, finishing his beer. “Thinking’s not the same as doing.”

The night hummed around them, a soft sea-breeze carrying the sounds of evening revelry from the beach. Jules shouldered his board. “Early swell tomorrow. I’m going out. G’night.”

Dan watched Jules go, then glanced at Vic. “If you make up your mind about her…” He let it hang there, unspoken.

Vic leant back against the wall, closing his eyes to the night breeze. “I’ll let you know.” But deep down, he knew he already had. He just didn’t want to admit it, in case of tempting Fate.

He drove home in his old Audi, the tyres grumbling along the coastal road. The headlights caught bursts of scrub and sand as he rounded the bends, sea on one side, low dark hills on the other. The radio was off. He didn’t feel like filling the silence. Emma’s voice lingered in his head, a sharper echo than he’d like. “You’re always out there, Vic. Surfing, hanging with your mates. You never make me the centre of things.”

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. It wasn’t like he didn’t care. He just… couldn’t live like that. Having to orbit around someone, or pull them into his own orbit. He’d tried. But Emma needed more, more attention, more drama, more everything. And in the end, it hadn’t been enough. He exhaled slowly and opened the window a crack. Cool salt air slipped in, brushing against his cheek.

Olympe’s face flickered in his mind. The sharp set of her jaw. A raised eyebrow, dry British humour. The way she had stood back in the Board Walk, letting him have his moment with the new board without needing to fill it with words or attention-seeking. She doesn’t need me to explain myself, he thought. Doesn’t need to be the sun in the centre of everything. And yet, she wasn’t distant, either. She’d joked with him. Stood her ground with Dan. Walked beside him like an equal, like she belonged right there without asking permission. He wondered if she’d even want a boyfriend hovering around her, checking in, texting soppy emojis. Somehow he doubted it. She had her own wheels. Her own place. Her own plans.

The Audi rattled as he pulled into the communal driveway, headlights washing over the patchy grass. He shut off the engine, sat in the sudden silence. Maybe that’s what drew him. Not just the way she moved, or the way those long legs caught his eye. Not even just the guts she showed, saying yes to an unfamiliar beach and a strange board. It was that she was already whole. Already complete. Didn’t need him to fill a gap, or fix her, or finish some story.

Vic leant back in his seat, watching the stars flicker through the windscreen. That’s new, he thought. That’s different. For the first time in a while, the idea of different felt more like an invitation than a warning.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 08: Early Morning Panic

Olympe woke from a drunken doze about 1 o’clock on Sunday morning.

*Wtf it's already yesterday,* she thought, her fuddled mind losing track of different dates and time zones across the four halves of the world. *It's Daddy's birthday! I must ring him.*

She grabbed her handset and tapped for her father's number in England. It seemed to take an age to connect.

"Hello, Pia! How are you doing? I wasn't expecting to hear from you."

The familiar paternal cadence jangled Olympe's nostalgia. She hadn't seen her parents for over six months. She began to sing. "Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Dear Daddy, Happy birthday to you!"

"My birthday?" Thomas chuckled. "That's on Monday, Pia. It's still Saturday afternoon here. You've got mixed up with the international dateline. But thank you anyway. Eat a slice of cake for me. The pictures of your new flat looked very nice. Have you been to the beach yet?"

"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry! I didn't send a card so I felt very guilty. I went to the beach yesterday. It's nearly winter here but it’s so warm, you would not believe it. How is Maman? How is everything?"

"Everything is fine. Maman is in the garden, spraying the roses for black spot. I'm very happy to hear your voice, Pia. Call me again on Monday, I have to go now."

Olympe put the phone down. She eyed her creased dress ruefully. The late evening nap and sudden adrenaline rush of the call to London provoked her to restlessness.

"I must buy an iron," she told herself, then undressed and put all the day's clothes into the washing machine, setting it on timer mode to start in the morning and avoid annoying the neighbours she hadn't yet met. Wandering around her flat in the nude, she went to look at her drinks cabinet and decided a cocktail was a bad idea. Alcohol would lead to disturbed sleep. Disturbed sleep might lead to dreams, and Pia's dreams easily became nightmares, jumbled memories of violent encounters, pain, blood, usually but not always someone else's, and the worst thing was the feeling of satisfaction when she put down an enemy.

When you kill, you lose a part of yourself.

But her father once told her about the Duke of Wellington's comment after the battle of Waterloo. That the only thing worse than a battle won is a battle lost. And her attorney in Honolulu had said it was better to be under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon, than under six feet of earth.

Olympe felt a twinge in her abdomen, checked her menstrual apps, and decided to put a pad in her panties. Still restless, she dressed in her silk kimono for warmth and booted up a playlist of electronic dance music, streamed to her Bluetooth cat ear headphones. The neighbours opposite were treated to the bizarre sight of a tall blonde bopping around her living room in silence and near darkness, a gorgeous kimono dragging the floor behind her as she shuffle danced.

"I'll go to the beach again tomorrow. Early. I should rent a parasol and a sun lounger. Stake out my space and stay all day."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 09: Bronte

Vic leant against the balcony railing of his apartment, yet another lukewarm beer in his hand, watching the night settle over the city. A breeze stirred the jacaranda blossoms in the street below. That girl, Olympe, drifted in and out of his head.

He’d only barely met her, but something about her hit different. Not just her looks. She was striking in a careless, effortless way, all sharp edges and easy smiles, like she wasn’t trying to charm anyone but still did. It was something in the way she moved. Like she’d been somewhere else entirely for years and had just dropped into their lives for a moment, out of sync but completely sure of herself. And that voice. Not just her accent, but her way of speaking, fast, clipped, like she had a hundred ideas jostling to get out. She’d made him laugh without meaning to. But she also knew how to be silent.

Vic frowned a little, swirling the beer in the bottle. He didn’t know if he was curious, attracted, or just intrigued by the sheer unpredictability of her. She was the kind of girl you wanted to chase, but you got the feeling she might vanish if you began to overtake her. He wondered what she was doing right now. Probably out somewhere glamorous, or back at her flat with a weird playlist and a glass of something expensive. Or maybe, like him, just watching the world go by and overthinking it all. He drained the beer and set the bottle down. Opened another. *I’m drinking too much,* he thought, and drank anyway.

Dan sprawled on his couch, bare propped on the coffee table, mindlessly scrolling on his phone. But he wasn’t really seeing the feed. He was replaying that moment on the beach, the scene when Olympe emerged from the water like some kind of sea spirit, her hair dripping, that sharp grin flashing at them like she’d caught them watching her and she liked it. She’d thrown him off balance. Not just her looks, though, bloody hell, he’d noticed, but something about the way she owned the space around her. Like the world was her stage and they were lucky to watch.

Dan exhaled, tossing his phone aside. Vic had been unusually quiet around her, which was saying something. Normally Vic had words for everything. But Olympe had this way of… what was it? Commanding attention? Or maybe just disrupting it. Like dropping a pebble into a still pond. He was pretty sure she was trouble. He wasn't sure if he cared. She seemed like the kind of girl who’d lived more in twenty-something years than most people do in fifty. That was exciting. That was dangerous.

Dan grinned. He wanted to see how that story would unfold. He hoped he was a part of it.

“What are you smiling at, Dan?” his wife asked.

“Nothin’. Maybe somethin’. Vic might have met a girl.”

Vic closed the balcony door and tossed another empty bottle in the recycling bin. He stared around his apartment for a moment. Small, tidy, functional, it was fine. It was enough. But it felt too quiet tonight. He pulled out his phone, flicking through weather apps, tide charts, surf reports. Tomorrow was shaping up sunny, with a light breeze from the east. Perfect. He didn’t want to sit around stewing over Emma again. Didn’t want to scroll through old photos or answer well-meaning texts from mates who asked if he was okay. He was okay. Mostly. But the weekends stretched out longer now, lonelier.

“Beach,” he said aloud, decisive. “Yeah. Beach.” He would take his new board. Maybe swim a few laps. Maybe read. He shoved a towel and sunscreen into his battered backpack and propped his board by the door. Tomorrow he was going to sweat out the ghosts. Monday could wait.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 10: Ups and Downs of Surfing

When Olympe woke up it was indeed the start of Shark Week. She wasn’t the kind of girl to let that stop her, though. She ignored the bloating and took Paracetamol for the cramps. She did three full sets of Japanese rajio taiso exercises before she took a shower and inserted a moon cup.

Stuffing extra pads and a spare period panty into her beach bag, Olympe swung out on her Vespa, already wearing a full body rash guard skin suit in pale blue and white stripes under a floaty yellow sundress. She gained the beach so early that the hire shop was still closed. She wandered around on foot and found a café for a bite of breakfast. She ate smashed avo toast with prawns and shredded mango, an aggressively Aussie breakfast, and went back out, thinking to have a run up and down the sand before it got too crowded with sunseekers. She hired an umbrella and lounger, set up her little base camp, and stripped off her dress.

Olympe was pounding along barefoot, enjoying the different kind of workout she got from the soft, wet surface, the scrunch of the sand under her naked toes, when she spotted one of the surfer guys from the day before. He was standing there with a board, looking out to sea, and kind of kicking his feet moodily.

"Hey, Vic? You look like you're in a brown study."

Vic stood at the water’s edge, one foot resting on his plank, his eyes on the horizon. The sea was quiet, the waves gentle and unhurried, rolling in without much enthusiasm, but his thoughts churned in restless loops . He’d been here a while, his board waiting beside him like a faithful companion, but somehow he hadn’t managed to step into the water yet. Every time he started forward, something inside him pulled him back.

He thought about Emma. Not sharply anymore, but like a bruise he kept pressing, just to check if it still hurt. About how everything between them unravelled so quietly it didn’t even feel like breaking. About the apartment half-empty, the long silence after the last text.

A seagull cried overhead. He dug his heel into the wet sand, watching a tiny crab scuttle sideways.

Then, movement caught out of the corner of his eye: a flash of blue and white stripes streaking along the shoreline. A runner. No, her.

Olympe.

She came closer, slowing as she spotted him. Sweat glistened at her temples; her smile was quick and amused, like she’d caught him out.

“Hey, Vic?” she called. “You look like you’re in a brown study.”

The sound of his name in her mouth jolted him from his reverie. He couldn't help but smile, crooked and a little self-conscious.

“Maybe I am,” he said, shifting his weight, standing a little straighter. “You always this perceptive, Olympe? Or am I just being obvious?” He found himself glad she was there. Surprised, but glad.

"It's my job." Olympe smiled up at Vic's moody face. "Are you gonna go out? If you’re going to go, you should go. Cause if you don't go, you'll never get there. So go on. I'll wait and watch your first run." She sipped water from the small bottle she had in her bumbag.

Vic chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s your job, huh? I should’ve known you’d be trouble, Olympe.” He glanced back at the water, then down at his board, then back at her. Her smile was easy, but there was something steady in it too, like she’d already seen through half his excuses. “Yeah, all right,” he said, nodding toward the waves. “I’ll go. Can’t have you thinking I’m a poser hodad who just stands around holding a board all day.”

He picked his board up, tucked it under his arm, and flashed her a grin. “But fair warning, I’m rusty. You laughing counts as a performance review.” He started toward the water, pausing just once to look back over his shoulder, his smile lingering.

“Don’t go running off, detective. I’ll be back.”

Olympe looked puzzled.

Vic noticed her expression, the slight furrow between her quirked brows. He paused, and tilted his head toward her. “What?” he asked, half-grinning, curious. “That face, what’s going on in that brain of yours, Olympe?” He shifted his weight, standing easy but alert, waiting, his smile hovering somewhere between playful and genuinely intrigued.

"How did you know I was a detective, Vic?"

Vic blinked, caught off guard. His grin faded just a fraction, replaced by a flicker of surprise, then amusement. “Ah,” he said, drawing the word out, adjusting his grip on the board. “Lucky guess?” But his eyes betrayed him, there was a glint of mischief there, and maybe something else, something weighing the moment.

“I mean… you kind of give it away,” he added, shrugging lightly. “The way you watch people. And listen. And the questions. You’ve got a… I dunno. cop brain vibe.” He flashed her a lopsided smile, trying to play it cool. “Did I get it wrong?”

"Yeah, no, yeah, well, I was a detective but I've retired. I suppose I've still got the instincts. You have to be interested in people, in their stories, to be a good detective. You have to know how to watch, and listen. Anyway,” she smiled, “Get in that surf and catch a wave for me, big boy." She reached out to tap his arm.

Vic laughed, a warm, genuine sound that rumbled up from his chest. “Big boy, huh? Careful, Olympe, I might start believing you.” He shook his head, still smiling, then nodded toward the water. “All right. One wave, just for you.” As he jogged down to the shoreline, he glanced back over his shoulder once more, watching her watching him, and felt a strange lightness in his chest.

He pushed off into the water, paddling out beyond the break. Beneath the rhythmic pull of the sea, his thoughts circled her words, I’ve given it up now. She said she had given it up. But not really. Not with those eyes.

He sat up on his board, scanning the waves, heart steadier than it had been in weeks. “One wave for her,” he murmured to himself. “Let’s make it a good one.” He turned, caught a rising swell, and started paddling hard.

Olympe waved when she saw Vic looking back at her, then she waited, standing tall, flexing a little on her sleek legs to keep her blood running smooth. She shaded her eyes with a hand, watching as Vic began to paddle for the wave.

Vic spotted her signal, a quick lift of her arm, silhouetted against the shoreline, her other hand shading her face as she watched him. There was something about that image, her standing tall, poised, intent, that made him want to show off a little, even though he told himself he didn’t care.

He dug deeper with each stroke of his arms, feeling the swell start to lift him. His muscles burnt in that familiar way, his breath sharp in his chest. He pushed up, feet planting on the board, knees bending, finding his balance as the wave caught him and drove him forward.

For a few glorious seconds, he was flying. The water hissed beneath the board, salt spray stung his lips. He carved a small arc, nothing fancy, but solid, clean. He rode it as far as he could, until the wave died into foam, then dropped down into the shallows, panting, exhilarated. He glanced up the beach to see if she was still watching.

“Not bad for a rusty guy,” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth with a grin.

Olympe bounced up and down, waving both hands in the air to show she'd seen everything. Then she ran towards Vic, splashing out into the sandy foam where the water lapped up on the beach.

"That was a good run! Was that a good run?,” she grinned. “The waves aren't big today. Surfing's a sport where you can't do everything by yourself."

Vic laughed as he saw her bounding toward him, both arms waving like a semaphore signal. Her energy was contagious; even from the water, he could feel it radiating off her. He hoisted his board under one arm, wading toward her through the shallows, droplets glittering as they dripped off his skin. His grin was broad and unguarded.

“Yeah, it was a good run,” he said, still catching his breath. “Not my best, but better than I deserved after I’ve been standing around sulking all morning.” He tilted his head, considering her last comment, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re right, though. You can’t control the ocean. You wait, you watch… you work with what it gives you.” He paused, looking at her more intently, something thoughtful flickering behind the warmth in his gaze. “Kind of like people, huh?”

He gave her a playful nudge of his shoulder. “You ever tried it? Surfing?”

Olympe did an eyes wide double-take. "What!? Are you joking? You bloody well know I did, Vic, because you let me have a go on your board. The other one. The old one. Then we went up to the surf shop, Board Walk, and you looked at your new board. What was the guy's name? Jules.”

Vic froze for half a second, blinking, caught completely off guard by her certainty. His brow furrowed, his smile tilting into puzzled curiosity.

“I… let you have a go?” he echoed, then huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. “Olympe, you’ve got me confused with someone else. I haven’t lent out a board in… well, ages.” He shifted his board to his other arm, eyeing her like he was trying to solve a riddle. “But that’s a solid memory. Feels real to you, huh?”

He grinned again, gentler this time. “What was his name?” he mused, playing along now. “The guy who runs Board Walk? Greg? No, Grant. Or was it Baz?” Vic chuckled, swiping water out of his eyes. “Now you’ve got me doubting my own life story, detective.”

Olympe's eyes hardened. She frowned. "Jules at Board Walk, and your other friend is Dan. The very tall one. He was here when I borrowed your board. I only did one run but it was a pretty good one. Don't gaslight me about it, Vic, I can't stand that." She stood her ground stiffly. “I was beginning to like you.”

Vic’s grin faltered as soon as he saw the shift in her face, the sudden hardness in her eyes, the stiff set of her shoulders. His own expression softened, concern flickering beneath his confusion.

“Hey, ” He held up a hand, palm out, his voice low, steady. “Olympe, I swear, I’m not messing with you. I wouldn’t.” He took a careful step closer, board held like a shield. “I believe you remember it that way. I just… I don’t remember it happening.” He shook his head slowly, searching her face. “Not saying you’re wrong. Just saying I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten something like that.”

He let the silence settle, then added quietly, “I’m not trying to gaslight you. I’d never do that.”

His brow knitted, thoughtful, a bit thrown. “Dan, a lend of my board, Board Walk… all real.” He offered a tentative smile, trying to reach past the sudden wall between them. “Maybe you’re from the future,” he joked lightly, though his eyes stayed serious, watching her carefully.

Olympe's eyes softened in concern. "Has anything bad happened recently, Vic, like, a bang on the head? Or some kind of big emotional shock? That can throw off your memory. I know because it's happened to me."

Vic exhaled a quiet laugh, almost relieved at the gentleness returning to her gaze. He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck again, thoughtful.

“No head injuries,” he says with a crooked half-smile. “Not unless you count Friday’s staff meeting.” But her question landed deeper than he let on. His hand dropped from his neck, his eyes drifting past her toward the sea. “Something bad…” he repeated. He toed the wet sand, thinking. “Yeah. I guess you could call it that. I broke up with my girlfriend. Emma. Or she dumped me, to be fair. Pretty hard. A couple of weeks back.” He looked back at Olympe, shrugging, a wry twist to his lips. “Not exactly fresh, but I still keep thinking about her.”

Vic lifted his board a little, gesturing toward the ocean. “That’s half the reason I’m out here. Trying to clear my head. Trying to… I dunno. Get the old Vic back.” His gaze settled on her again, earnest now. “But I’m all here, Olympe. I swear. No gaps I’m aware of.” He tipped his head, giving her a softer smile. “Thanks for checking. That’s… really kind of you.

"Emma? Girlfriend? I'm guessing she dumped you all of a sudden. You probably went out and got drunk,” Olympe said, nodding to herself as she formed this theory. “Repeatedly. Typical guy behaviour. You probably drank too much last night. Come on. I've got an umbrella and cold water and snacks. You can tell me about Emma or whatever you like."

Olympe turned and splashed off towards her little beach camp, just assuming Vic would follow. Vic watched her slosh away. A surprised laugh escaped him, light, grateful, a little disbelieving. He stood there for a moment, watching the confident sway of her stride, the easy assumption in her movement. Then he shook his head, smiling wider, and started after her, board under his arm, leaving a trail of footprints behind.

“Yeah,” he called after her, his voice warm with amusement, “Something like that.”

As he caught up, he added, almost to himself, “And maybe I did get drunk. I drank enough last night. Maybe I’ve been drunk on her memory longer than I thought.” Louder, he teased, “Hope those snacks are good, detective. I don’t spill my guts for cheap lollies.” He followed her to the umbrella’s shade, feeling, for the first time in weeks, some lightness in his chest, like the tide might finally be turning.

<<To be continued…>>

Chapter 11: Confessions

Olympe let Vic have the lounger. She rinsed her feet before she knelt in Japanese seiza position on her large beach towel. She gave Vic a bottle of water and a Tim Tam, half-melted.

"I'm addicted to these things. Go on. Eat it. Or not. As you want. But don't call me detective, because I've given all that up. I'm just a girl in the world, now. And I'm better for it."

Vic lowered himself onto the lounger, his board propped beside him, accepting the bottle and the Tim Tam with a grateful grin. He studied the biscuit in his hand, amused. “Half-melted’s the best way,” he said, popping it in his mouth without hesitation. “Worth the messy fingers.” He glanced at her, sitting so composed and elegant on the towel, her bare feet tucked neatly beneath her. That seiza pose looked deliberate, disciplined, ceremonial against the casual sprawl of the beach.

“No more detective. Noted,” he said quietly, his smile softening. He took a sip of water, then leant his head back, letting the sun warm his face for a moment.

“You’re just a girl now,” he echoed, opening one eye to look at her again. “But I dunno, Olympe… feels like there’s more to you than just a girl.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “You say you’re better for it. You believe that?” There was no challenge in his tone, just quiet curiosity, like he was trying to understand the shape of her inner world without prying.

"I did some good things when I was a detective,” Olympe said, “But I did some bad things too. In the end I had to give it up. Then I did some more bad things afterwards. But that's all over now. I've had therapy. I came here to forget all of that, as much as I can."

Vic listened quietly, the playful edge in his expression fading into something more attentive. He set the water bottle down beside the lounger, his gaze fixed on her. He didn’t rush to fill the silence. He let her words settle between them like the warm sand. Finally, he nodded, his voice gentle. “Yeah.” A moment. “Yeah, I get that.”

He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. “I think you’re braver than you give yourself credit for. Walking away from something like that? Choosing… peace, I guess? That’s not nothing, Olympe.”

He offered a small smile, one corner of his mouth lifting. “And you don’t have to tell me any of it if you don’t want to. We can just… sit. Eat half-melted Tim Tams. Watch the world go by.” He leant back again, letting the sunlight play across his face, eyes half-closing. “Or you can tell me everything. Either way, I’m here.”

"If I tell you the worst thing I've ever done, what will you think of me, Vic?" Olympe said in a subdued tone.

Vic’s eyes opened fully at that, his gaze meeting hers with quiet seriousness. He sat up a little straighter on the lounger, letting her see that he was fully present, not hiding behind a grin or a joke. He considered her question carefully, then spoke, his voice low and steady.

“I think… I’d think you trusted me.” He let that hang a second before adding, “And I’d try to deserve it.”

His lips twitched into a faint smile, a softness in his eyes. “Whatever the worst thing is, Olympe… it’s already happened. Doesn’t change who you are sitting here right now. Doesn’t change what I see.” He tilted his head slightly. “But only if you want to tell me.” He settled back again, giving her space, his hands open and resting on his knees, a quiet, patient invitation.

Olympe took a breathe and began. “My elder brother is called Yancy. He's lived in Japan for... over six years now. His wife's Japanese. Hikaru. About three years ago I took some time off from detecting and went over there to live in Tokyo. I wanted to learn Japanese. Which I did."

Olympe sipped water to wet her throat. She was looking out to sea, not caring if Vic frowned or grimaced at her words.

"I met a boy. Hisashi. Hikaru introduced us because Hisashi was studying French and I speak French like a native. I’m half-French, actually. My mother. That's how I can do that funny accent I did the other day. Hikaru told me, 'Be careful, Pia. Don't break a boy's heart just for some holiday fun.'"

Vic was trying to keep track of the different people in the story. He listened, his brow knitting slightly as he mentally tracked the names, Yancy, Hikaru, Hisashi, Olympe, Pia, piecing together the threads of her narrative. But he didn’t interrupt. He didn’t grimace, just watched her quietly, letting her words unfold at their own pace. When she glanced out at the water, he followed her gaze, but his attention stayed with her, steady and unobtrusive.

“French like a native,” he murmured, a small smile ghosting across his lips. “Yeah… that tracks.” He shifted on the lounger. His voice was gentle but intent, inviting her to continue without pressure. “What happened with him?” he asked softly. “With Hisashi?”

There was no judgement in the question, only curiosity wrapped in care, like he knew she was working her way toward something important, and he was willing to meet her wherever she landed.

"What happened was I broke Hisashi's heart, for what I thought was a good reason, and it actually was a very good reason. Not a selfish reason at all. And he was distraught, of course. I wasn’t happy myself. I made it into a huge quarrel. Shouting in three languages. I stormed off one way and he went the other. Then he... died."

Vic’s breath caught, subtle but sharp. His hands still where they rested on his knees, his whole posture gone quiet, absorbing the weight of her words. He didn’t speak right away. He let the space hold. Then, gently, carefully: “Olympe…” His voice was low, rough around the edges. “I’m so sorry.”

He shifted, turning a little more toward her, his expression open, earnest, no trace of the easy grin now, just quiet empathy. “That wasn’t on you,” he said softly, steady but cautious, imagining the burden she must have carried. “I don’t know the story… but him dying? That wasn’t your fault.”

He paused again, eyes searching hers, but giving her space if she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked, offering, not pushing. “You don’t have to. I’ll sit here either way.” His fingers tapped lightly on his water bottle, grounding himself, waiting, solid, patient. She went on with the story.

"What happened was I had got involved in some pro bono undercover work for a Tokyo Met detective. I fed him information I picked up at the hostess club where I worked. Stuff about sex trafficking. I hate it!” she said with a sudden, deep frown. “The police were able to roll up most of the gang, but the ones who escaped wanted revenge. Komai told me I had to get out of town.”

Olympe sniffed. Her eyes were watering.

“So I split with Hisashi the very same night he proposed to me. I thought I was protecting him. Shielding him from the Yakuza. Komai flew me out to Seoul and then back to London. But at the same time, more or less, Hisashi threw himself under an express train.” Olympe’s shoulders shuddered as she broke into tears.

“At least, that's what everyone thought at the time. Obviously Hikaru blamed me. I blamed myself. It was found out later, like a year later, that a gangster had pushed him off the platform. So my trying to protect Hisashi didn't work anyway, and he died uselessly, thinking I hated him. And that's the worst thing I've ever done."

Olympe's tears were rolling steadily down her face, dripping onto her body suit, where they darkened the pale blue like raindrops.

Vic listened, unmoving, every word threading deeper into him as she spoke. His chest tightened with each detail, the picture sharpening into something darker, heavier than he’d imagined. When she finished, his breath came out slow, quiet, like he’d been holding it the whole time. He watched the tears fall, watched how they darkened the pale blue fabric in quiet blotches, and felt a dull ache swell beneath his ribs.

He didn’t rush in with platitudes. Instead, he leant forward, elbows on his knees again, hands loose but steady between them.

“Olympe…” His voice was hoarse, gentle. “That’s not the worst thing you did.” He shook his head faintly, gaze fixed on her, warm and unwavering. “That’s the worst thing someone else did. To both of you.”

He let the words settle before adding, softer still: “You were trying to save him. And you did the bravest thing anyone could’ve done. You stepped into danger to protect someone you loved. That’s not something to blame yourself for.”

He hesitated a moment, then leant forward a little more, grounding his words in quiet conviction. “You didn’t fail him, Olympe. The people who hurt him, they failed. Not you.” He fell silent then, giving her space, his presence steady and close, like an anchor if she needed it.

"I hurt him too, Vic. I didn't kill Hisashi, but I made him very unhappy and angry for his last night on earth. Even though… I was trying to do… The right thing… I failed him. And Hikaru. And myself. And I haven't had a good relationship with a man since then." Olympe sniffled and swiped away her tears with the heels of her hands.

Vic’s heart twisted at her words, at the raw ache in her voice. He watched her quietly, his chest tightening with an ache of his own, not pity, but something closer to recognition. He leant forward, elbows on his knees again, his voice low and steady, careful like he’s handling something fragile and precious.

“You’re allowed to have hurt him,” he said softly. “It doesn’t make you bad. It makes you human.”

He let that sit for a moment, then added, his eyes kind and earnest, “Trying to do the right thing doesn’t always feel good. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes it hurts like hell. But you tried, Olympe. That’s more than most people ever do.”

He hesitated, then offered a small, rueful smile. “And as for not having a good relationship since… well.” He looked out at the sea for a beat before glancing back at her, his smile deepening gently. “I dunno. I’m not a life coach, but…” He held out his hand toward her, palm up, just quietly offering. “You’re here. You’re telling me. That takes a lot of guts.”

Olympe reached out and squeezed Vic’s hand. "Thanks for listening, Vic, and for not... I don't know. I didn't know what you would do but I wanted get it out there.” She sighed, looking down at the sand. “I need to go to the loo and do my makeup."

Vic’s fingers closed gently around hers, returning the squeeze with gentle warmth. His smile softened, touched with something deeper than amusement now.

“Anytime, Olympe,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “Thanks for trusting me with it.” He let her hand go, giving her space as she pulled back, watching her with quiet attention.

“You freshen up,” he added lightly, his smile tilting playful again, hoping to ease the heaviness that lingered between them. “I’ll guard the snacks.”

He settled back, folding his arms behind his head, watching her go with a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured to himself, staring at the sky. “She’s something else.”

<<To be continued…>>

Chapter 12: Memories

Olympe came back 20 minutes later, looking more presentable. She felt emotionally centred. Her eyes were still puffy, though. She hid them with chunky shades. She lay down on the towel and stretched out in the sun with her head in the shadow of the umbrella. "Go on, Vic. Have another Tim Tam."

Vic lifted his head from where he’d been half-dozing. He watched her settle beneath the umbrella, taking in the careful coolness of the shades, the quiet grace in the way she stretched her long body out. He smiled, soft and fond, as he reached for another Tim Tam from the packet. “Look at you, feeding me chocolate like I’m some overgrown kid.” He popped it into his mouth, chewing with a playful exaggeration. “Gotta say, not complaining.”

He glanced down at her, his tone warm but easy. “You okay there, Olympe? Need anything? A coffee? More snacks? A silly story?” He tipped his head back against the lounger again, happy to let the silence stretch out if she didn't answer, happy just to share the sun with her.

For a while Olympe was content to feel the heat of the sun on her bodysuit, the rough towel under her back, and relax in the catharsis of her confession. They lay side by side in the warm air for a few minutes.

"Tell me a fun, silly story about one of your old girlfriends, but anonymise it, Vic. I don't want to feel prejudiced against someone I might meet one day. Because all exes aren’t automatically bad people."

Vic chuckled quietly, shading his eyes with one hand as he glanced over at her. “That’s fair. No names, no identifying details. Just vibes.” He thought for a moment, lips quirking as a memory surfaced.

“Okay,” he said, settling back more comfortably, “There was this girl I dated a few years ago, let’s call her… Mango.” He grinned. “Because she was obsessed with mangoes. Mango gelato, mango cocktails, mango-scented everything. Her apartment smelled like a tropical fruit stand.” He paused for dramatic effect.

“I had mangoes for breakfast today,” Olympe said from nowhere. “Shredded mangoes and smashed avocado and grilled prawns on artisanal sourdough toast. Very Australian. It was rather nice. Sorry. Go on.”

“Uhuh? That’s a Coogee café brunch. Anyway, I’d been seeing Mango a couple of months when she invited me to this fancy dinner party her friends were hosting. She told me it was ‘casual.’ I rocked up in jeans and a button-down.” He winced at the memory. “Everyone else was in full black tie. Dinner suits. Cocktail dresses. It was champagne in proper flutes, and tiny canapés I couldn’t even name. Full-on glam.” He laughed softly. “Mango was mortified at first. I spent the evening pretending I meant to be ironic. Played the charming rogue. By the end of it, half her friends thought I was some mysterious avant-garde artist.” He glanced over at Olympe. She was smiling at the image Vic had presented.

“There’s nothing worse than turning up underdressed,” Olympe said. “On the plus side, everyone must have talked about you, and that’s better than no-one remembering you at all. If Oscar Wilde is to be trusted.” She chuckled. “So you just styled it out. Well done! Good improv skills. I approve.”

“In the end Mango said it was the most fun she’d had at one of those boring parties.”

“There you go.”

He tapped his water bottle thoughtfully. “Obviously it didn’t last with Mango, but mangoes still make me smile.” He grinned again. “Your turn, Olympe. Tell me a fun, silly story. Doesn’t have to be about a guy.”

"Okay.” She thought for a few seconds. “How about this. I did an undercover job once in a Japanese café in London. Soho. It's the red light district. It was a 'head patting' café. I got trained how to pat people’s heads. Because there’s a special way Japanese like to pat each other’s heads. Mainly guys to girls, or the other way round. It’s not a sexual thing but it can be. Or at least flirty. But usually not. I mean, if you go for a haircut in Japan, they massage your head as standard. It’s just part of the service.”

Olympe’s train of thought might have got a bit derailed. She paused, trying to remember her story.

“I could speak a bit of Japanese already but mainly I got the job because of having long legs and blonde hair. Lots of Japanese men have a fantasy of getting together with a leggy blonde. That's how I got the hostess job later on, but that was in Kabukicho, in Tokyo. Which is another red light district.” She suddenly turned her head to look directly at Vic. “Where's the red light district in Sydney?"

Vic’s eyebrows lifted with genuine delight, his grin spreading wide as she told her story. He let out a low whistle. “A head patting café?” he echoed, half-disbelieving, half-impressed. “That’s… honestly, that’s brilliant.” He shook his head, laughing softly. “You’ve lived about ten lives already, haven’t you?”

He propped himself up on one elbow to return her stare, still smiling. “And Kabukicho, huh? You really don’t do anything by halves.” He squinted out to sea. “The red light district in Sydney? Mmm… well, technically Kings Cross used to be the big one. Nightclubs, strip joints, massage parlours, that kind of thing. But they’ve cleaned it up a lot in the last decade.” He tilted his head. “You’ll still find a bit of that vibe there. A few places in Darlinghurst too. But nothing like Soho or Kabukicho, from what I’ve heard of them.”

He paused, his grin returning. “You thinking of taking up another undercover gig?” He gave her leg a playful nudge with his foot. “Or just curious about where the city hides its secrets?”

"I was curious to know if you would admit to knowing where the red light areas are. Which I think means you don't go down there, Vic, not for the hard stuff, or you wouldn't tell me about them." Olympe sat up and shuffled herself fully under the umbrella's shade, adopting her kneeling pose again.

Vic chuckled, with a wry grin as he watched her shift back into that neat, poised kneeling posture. He propped himself up more fully on the lounger, his elbows braced behind him, looking at her with quiet admiration.

“You got me,” he admitted, with a smile in his voice. “Yeah, I’ve walked through Kings Cross plenty of times. But I’m more the kebab-at-midnight, stumble-home drunk kinda guy than the regular at any of those joints.”

She looked at him for a hot second, looked out to sea, then looked back.

"Anyway, Soho isn't all sleaze,” Olympe said. “Nor is Kabukicho. There are plenty of completely legit bars and restaurants as well as the sex businesses.” She drank some water. “Hostess clubs are a kind of middle category. They're regulated under some old Japanese prostitution law about so-called ‘adult entertainment businesses', but all that happens is you sit and flirt with men. Pour their drinks and listen to their gossip and complaints. Giggle and coo, if that’s what they want, or discuss more serious issues, sometimes. Depends on the kind of guy." She gave an enigmatic smile. “Or you play games or sing karaoke.”

Vic tilted his head, listening closely as she explained Kabukicho, his expression thoughtful. “That makes sense,” he said. “Like… the normal and the shady, all tangled up together. Kinda like life, really.” His smile softened. “Sounds like you had to play a part there. A role. But underneath, you were still watching, weren’t you? Taking it all in.” He studied her a moment longer, his gaze gentle, curious. “Did you like it? The hostess work?” he asked quietly, not judging, just genuinely wanting to understand.

"It was interesting, listening to the men and finding out about their lives. Like I said, detectives need to be interested in people and their lives and stories. I improved my Japanese enormously. I learned a lot of street slang, and business terminology, and high level politeness. I worked out how to manipulate them to buy more drinks and so on. That’s how you get paid as a hostess. The men have to buy drinks and you get a cut.”

She looked out to sea and smiled gently.

“But it wasn’t a cheat. They knew what I was doing, and played along. It's all a game really. Play-acting. The Japanese like to have roles to play, a clear definition of proper behaviour for any social situation. While we Brits tend to busk it. Or maybe it’s just that our rules are less well defined."

Vic listened intently, his smile deepening as she spoke, a flicker of respect in his gaze. “Yeah,” he said softly, nodding. “A game with rules. But it sounds like you played it better than most.” He leant forward, resting his forearms on his knees, looking at her with a quiet kind of wonder. “It’s wild to think about. That you were out there doing that while I was… I dunno. Sitting in some office arguing over spreadsheet formulas.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve lived in a whole different world, Olympe.” He paused, then grinned. “Gotta admit, kinda impressive you could manipulate a bunch of guys and still make them like you for it.” He tipped his head thoughtfully. “Do you miss it? The role, I mean. Or is it a relief to be… out of character?”

"I just want to be me now. I resigned from being a detective. No more undercover. It was fun until it wasn’t fun.” She looked at Vic again. She gave a closed mouth smile, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. “I couldn't work in an office. Actually I could, because I did, on some undercover jobs. But I was rubbish at spreadsheets. I can do statistics, but not accounts. I had to look up the way to do nearly any kind of financial task."

Vic laughed, a warm, delighted sound that carries easily over the breeze. He leant back again, shaking his head with a grin. “That I can picture,” he said, amused. “Olympe, undercover queen of Kabukicho, international woman of mystery… stumped by Excel formulas and secretly googling the answers.” He stretched his legs out, folding his arms behind his head, smiling up at the inside beach umbrella. “And here I thought I was the only one who wanted to throw my laptop out the window half the time.” He glanced sideways at her, his grin softening. “You’re doing a pretty good job of just being you, y’know. Sitting here, talking like this. Feels pretty real to me. But if you ever want to learn spreadsheets properly, I’m your guy. I practically live in Excel.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Monday, it’s back to the mines.”

"Then you must make the most of your Sunday now, Vic. Get out there." Olympe waved at the sea. "I have to go home now. I didn't do any piano practice last night, so I must do it today. I want to start playing at open mic nights. You go and catch some waves. And thank you for listening to me."

Vic sat up at that, his grin widening as he watched her wave toward the sea. He stood, brushing sand off his legs, tucking his board under his arm again. “Yeah?” he said, smiling down at her. “You’re right. Can’t waste the sunshine.” He tilted his head, his gaze warm. “Piano practice, huh? That’s kinda cool, Olympe. I’d like to hear you play sometime.”

He shifted the board to his other arm, then gave her a small, easy nod. “Thanks for today. For the stories. For… trusting me.” He hesitated, then added with a crooked grin, “See you around, detective.” With that, he headed toward the surf, casting one last glance over his shoulder, his smile lingering, before he jogged into the waves.

Olympe waved at Vic as he looked back. On a sudden impulse, she held up her hand, thumb and little finger extended in the international signal for 'call me'. Forgetting it looked like the Shaka sign she learnt in Hawaii. Forgetting she hadn't given him her number. Vic gave a quick wave, launched himself into the sea and was paddling out. She started to pack her stuff.

Vic hadn’t noticed Olympe’s signal. The ocean claimed his attention, the rush of water and salt and sun washing everything else into the background. He paddled hard to get to the set-up line.

Olympe stood watching him for a minute longer, the edges of her lips curling into a private, wistful smile. She shook out her towel, dusted the sand from her bodysuit, slipped into her sundress, and packed her things with the ease of someone used to moving between worlds. *I can find him again,* she thought, slinging the bag over her shoulder. *He won’t be hard to track.*

She kicked her water shoes off for the walk back to her Vespa, feeling the warm sand between her toes, already planning the rest of her day; some good lengths at the local pool, a long shower, piano practice; scales, arpeggios, and pieces she knew more or less by heart. As she rode home, the city sliding past in a blur of colour and noise, she felt lighter than for a long while.

Olympe went to Prince Alfred Park and swam 1,500 metres in the public pool. Deliciously tired, she walked home through the late afternoon warmth, and summoned a lazy dinner on the Menulog app. While waiting, she set up her electric piano and began to play some easy pieces from memory. *I should buy some sheet music,* she thought. *Learn some new songs.* Her very loose collection was scattered around the world. A lot of beginner stuff in her parents' home in London, more senior folios still making their slow way by sea freight from Hawaii.

The entryphone announced the arrival of dinner. Olympe stretched and switched off the piano. Relaxed into the Sydney night.

<<To be continued…>>

Chapter 13: Vespa Lady

The kettle burbled and clicked itself off. Steam curled up to the window above the sink. Vic stared out at the humdrum street below. His surfboard leant by the door, still gritty with salt and sand from a pre-dawn session. He rubbed the back of his neck absently. *God, what a night.* The bed had felt too big without Emma sprawled across half of it, but he hadn’t missed the arguments, the silences, the restless pacing in the dark.

“Wasn’t really working anyway,” he muttered, pouring hot water over a teabag. “Should’ve ended it sooner.” But still. Being the dumpee, even when you thought it was likely coming, left a dent. He carried his tea to the battered kitchen table, nudging aside a pile of surf mags. His phone vibrated on the tabletop. Dan. Again. He hesitated, then tapped on Answer.

“Mate. You alive?” Dan’s voice crackled with mock concern.

Vic smiled faintly. “Just about.”

“You coming down for a go? Swells are still decent.”

“Nah. Already been out.” He trailed off, thinking of Olympe yesterday, of that very real conversation on the beach, the way she’d opened herself. Revealed her vulnerability. “I should go into the office. But maybe I won’t. I’ve got plenty of leave days accumulated. Could use a bit of slack time to get my head into a new place. Should’ve planned it but what the hell.”

After they hung up, Vic stretched his legs out in front of him, sipping the cheap brew. He felt a weird sort of buzz, halfway between excitement and just nerves. As though something in the world was shifting, and he wasn’t sure what it meant. He glanced at the surfboard by the door again, and the just washed wetsuit dripping in the shower.

“Gotta figure myself out,” he said aloud. “But first… Real coffee.” He threw on jeans and a faded hoodie, grabbed his keys, and stepped out into the sunshine, the scent of brine and warming pavement around him. *I’ll head into the city after coffee,* Vic thought. *Maybe I’ll accidentally ‘bump into’ Olympe. Or maybe I’ll give her a little space, let her come to me.* He suddenly realised he was keen to see her again.

The bell above the door jingled as Vic ducked inside Board Walk, greeted by the smell of wax, neoprene, and salt. Jules leaned against the counter, flipping through a skate mag, his mop of curls poking out from under a beanie.

“Oi, Davern. You’re up early.” Jules looked him over. “No board? No wetsuit? You sick?”

Vic slung an arm across the counter, grinning faintly. “Nah. Already been out, Just came to bug you.” He scratched his chin. “I got distracted.”

Jules narrowed his eyes. “By…?”

Vic hesitated, then shrugged. “You remember that woman, Olympe? We were both in the other day when I collected my new board.”

“Oooh, yeah!” Jules’s grin widened. “The lady who’s like a really hot swimsuit with a classy scarf added?”

“That’s the one,” Vic said, smiling despite himself. “I was talking to her yesterday.”

Jules leant against a rack of boards. “Did you get her number?”

“Nah.” Vic sighed, drumming his fingers. “Didn’t seem right at the time. It wasn’t that kinda chat. I wish I had. Now I’m wondering how the hell I’m supposed to find her again. She’s got this Vespa, right? Silver one. Electric, I think. I reckon she’s local, but Bronte and Coogee’re crawling with scooters. Could take weeks to spot her.”

Jules laughed. “Mate, you’ve got two options. One, sit at the beach like a sad puppy every day until she shows up.”

“Thanks, genius.” Vic rolled his eyes.

“Or two,” Jules continued, “let me sell her a board next time she comes in. She was eyeing the fish shapes the other day. I can casually slip her your number. ‘Oh, Vic’s the guy to talk to about that board.’ Smooth operator. Boom!”

Vic shook his head with a crooked smile. “Or she could see straight through that and think I’m a creep.”

Jules shrugged. “Worth a shot. Or… you could just trust fate, bro. If she’s meant to be, she’ll turn up. The universe’ll bring her to you.”

Vic leaned back, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “Yeah… maybe.” But inside, he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t used to wanting another chance this badly, and he wasn’t used to feeling so out of his depth trying to make it happen.

“Anyway,” Jules added, nudging him with an elbow, “sounds like you wanna get a proper rom-com meet cute set up. Better get on it.”

Vic laughed, shaking his head as he grabbed a wax bar from the shelf. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t start writing wedding invites.” He leant on the counter, absently spinning the wax bar between his fingers. “Okay, so… What else can you think of?”

Jules smirked. “Ask around. Someone’s gotta know her.”

Vic shook his head. “Mate, she’s new in town. Only been here a few weeks, max. Doesn’t exactly roll with the locals yet.”

Jules scratched his chin thoughtfully. “What about the Vespa? There aren’t many electric ones around. Maybe she puts it on a charger while she’s at the beach.”

Vic raised an eyebrow. “You want me to, what, stake out the scooter racks?”

Jules burst out laughing. “Bro. Please do it! Sit there with a notepad and binoculars. I’ll bring popcorn.”

Vic groaned. “No, no. Too weird.” He paused. “But… maybe there’s a scooter mechanic or dealer she goes to? That thing looked spotless. Someone sold it to her.”

Jules’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re thinking clever. Detective move.”

Vic straightened a little, feeling a flicker of hope. “You reckon Tommo down at Vespa Moto might know her?”

Jules nodded. “If anyone knows a silver electric Vespa around here, it’s gotta be him. Could ask casual, ‘Hey, you done an electric one lately?’ See what he says.”

Vic grinned. “Yeah. That’s not stalker territory. It’s just asking a mechanic.”

“Exactly.” Jules clapped him on the back. “Low-key recon. No binoculars needed.”

Vic tossed the wax bar onto the counter, feeling lighter. “Alright, I’ll swing by again later. Thanks, bro.”

Jules grinned. “I’ll expect an update. And a wedding invite.”

Vic laughed, shaking his head as he headed for the door. “You’ll be lucky to get a postcard.” But inside, the knot of frustration had eased. It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but it was something. And it didn’t feel like chasing, it felt like finding.


Chapter 14: Hello Vespa Moto

Vic stepped into the workshop with its characteristic tang of oil and rubber. The place hummed quietly. A mechanic was bent over a sleek black scooter at the back. Tommo looked up from his paperwork at the counter, wiping grease off his hands.

“Vic! Didn’t expect you today. Your old clunker finally died?”

Vic grinned. “Not yet, mate. Still running on prayers.” He leant casually on the counter. “Actually, question for you.”

Tommo arched an eyebrow. “Shoot.”

“You done a silver Vespa Elettrica lately? Like, a really clean one. Looked almost new.”

Tommo tilted his head, thinking. “Hmm… silver Elettrica… yeah. Belongs to a tall woman with an English accent and a fancy handbag. She got a bit of a Bond girl vibe.”

Vic’s heart kicked up. “Yeah! That’s her. How did you know?”

Tommo smirked. “I sold it to her, you idiot. She came back later with a broken wing mirror and I replaced it. Can’t give you her details, obviously. Privacy and all. But if she came in for service, I can give her a note or something.”

Vic nodded slowly. “Yeah… yeah, that’d be good. Just say Vic says hi. She’ll know who. And give her my number.”

Tommo laughed. “Romantic, huh? Alright, Casanova.”

Vic scratched the back of his neck, a little embarrassed. “Not trying to be weird. Just… wanted to see her again.”

“No judgement, mate. I’ll pass it on if she comes by.”

Vic thanked him and headed back into the sunshine, feeling oddly hopeful. Maybe it wasn’t such a long shot after all.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 15: Shopping and Hacking

Olympe took a taxi to the Park Hyatt for breakfast. She was mildly disappointed to be sitting in the back of a humdrum Toyota Prius rather than a traditional London black cab. The views from the restaurant were amazing, though, taking in the whole span of the harbour, the iconic bridge, the sun rising over the opera house, and the busy ferries commuting to and fro.

Hunger sated, she relaxed with more coffee and planned the rest of her day. Two music shops, a jaunt through the main jewellery quarter, lunch at somewhere stylish she hadn't discovered yet. An afternoon in the big Westfield Mall. But something was niggling at her mind.

*Why hasn't Vic messaged me? I clearly gave him the sign yesterday.* Not realising Vic never saw her signal. Not remembering that she never gave him her number. *He’s got until lunch, then I'll... I don't know what I'll do but it will be the terror of the world!*

Olympe did not like it when guys ignored her. She tapped the table irritably with short, carefully manicured nails until the bill was brought for payment.

Vic had stretched out on a bench overlooking the beach, a takeaway coffee warming his hands as he watched the surf roll in. He’d already been to Vespa Moto, left his message with Tommo, and now… he waited.

His phone sat silent beside him. He glanced at it, then back at the sea. *She’s not even thinking about me.* A rueful grin quirked the corner of his mouth. *She’s got her own life. Probably off doing something wildly chic I wouldn’t even dream of.*

He sipped his coffee, then fished out a Tim Tam from a paper bag next to him, biting off each corner before dunking it into the hot brew with expert precision. A small, childish pleasure, very comforting.

Dan’s text arrived: “Any sightings of Vespa Lady? You just sulking on a bench somewhere?”

Vic shook his head, typing back: “Not sulking. Formulating strategy.”

Another text immediately pinged in: “That’s just what sulkers say.”

Vic laughed under his breath and pocketed the phone. He thought again of Olympe’s smile, the tilt of her head when she teased him yesterday. The scar on her shoulder. The confident way she carried herself. “What are you up to, detective?” he wondered aloud. He had no idea she was at the Park Hyatt, plotting smooth moves over coffee in a restaurant with a better view than any postcard.

Olympe calmed down while selecting a variety of sheet music for her new enthusiasm of performing at open mic nights. She calmed down further when viewing some of the best locally crafted jewellery in Sydney. A pair of black diamond studs from Luke Rose energised her acquisitive instinct. She slotted them in immediately, to suit her Soot Sprite theme.

"That's enough. Time for lunch." She checked her phone. Still no messages from Vic! *Incroyable. Roi des cons! I'll have to hunt him down.*” It was a ten minute walk to GeekStar Cybercafé. Olympe covered the distance in seven, rented a machine for two hours and ordered a sordid nerd lunch of cheeseburger and hot chips, the best she could expect at such a venue. But the network connection was stable and fast.

Vic checked his phone again as he stepped off the tram into the city, pulling his hoodie tighter against the breeze funneling between glass towers. Still no word from Tommo. Still no sign of Olympe. He rubbed his face. “Maybe Jules is right. Maybe I am just sitting around passively waiting for fate.”

But something had gnawed at him all morning, a restlessness he couldn’t shake. He wasn’t used to women like Olympe, self-possessed, sharp-witted, elegant without seeming to be trying. He’d never had to chase before. Or maybe… he’d never dared.

He wandered into a side street, pausing outside a music store, the window displaying vintage guitars and racks of sheet music. Something about the window stirred a memory: Olympe’s voice yesterday, casual and offhand. “I have to go home for piano practice.” He leant closer, peering in. “Could she be in a place like this?” he wondered aloud. He laughed at himself. “What am I doing, tracking her like a bloodhound?”

Vic stepped back, put his hands in his pockets. “You’re not gonna find her by coincidence,” he muttered. “Sydney’s too big.” Yet he didn’t head home. Instead, he walked on, as if his feet knew where he was supposed to be before he did.

Meanwhile, a few blocks away, Olympe settled into her station at GeekStar, fastidiously wiping burger grease from her fingers before she launched a new browser window, her mind turning sharp and operational.

“Alright, Vic. Let’s see what I can find out.” Her irritation had cooled to curiosity, and underneath, she felt the thrill of the hunt. Olympe searched up the landline for Board Walk.

Vic slowed his walk, peering up at the sandstone façade of a bookstore. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and for a split second his heart jumped, maybe Tommo? maybe her?, but it was only a surf forecast. He sighed, tucking it away.

The landline trilled from its cradle behind the counter. Jules picked up, chewing gum lazily. “Board Walk, Jules speaking.” He leant an elbow on the counter, twirling the phone cord around his fingers. “Yeah? Nah, Dan’s in the back. Vic? Nah, he left earlier. Who’s asking?” His tone shifted ever so slightly, a playful curiosity in his voice. “Wait… is this the Vespa Lady?” He grinned wide, biting back a laugh. “You looking for him? Well well well…”

"What do you mean, Vespa Lady?" Olympe's plummy English accent was highly recognisable, except that when she last met Jules she had spoken with a musical French accent. "No, don't waste time explaining. Just tell me Vic's surname or I'll go somewhere else to buy a board.

Jules let out a low whistle, grinning into the receiver. “Oof, posh and pushy. I like it.” There was the faint sound of Dan laughing in the background. “Alright, alright, no need to threaten my sales figures, princess.” Jules leant back on the stool, still toying with the phone cord. “Surname’s Davern. D A V E R N. Victor Davern. But don’t tell him I folded so easy, yeah?” He chuckled. “And listen, if you’re hunting him down, tell him Jules says he owes me a six-pack for playing Cupid. Oh, and when you buy that board, you are buying it from me.” He hung up with a grin, shaking his head. “Mate’s in for it. She’s on the warpath.”

Victor ducked into a coffee shop, unaware he had just been marked for pursuit. He checked his phone again, frowning slightly at the empty notifications. “Hope Tommo’s right… hope she stops by.” He stirred his coffee absentmindedly. “Or maybe she’s already decided I’m not worth chasing,” he murmured.

"Six pack?" Olympe wasn't familiar with the Aussie slang for a slab of tinned beer because she drank good wine and cocktails, not supermarket cooking lager. She envisioned a toned male abdomen, which was a pleasant daydream but not something she could buy. Except maybe for gigolos.

*I never took Jules for gay!? Whatever.*

Olympe had learnt an important lesson from her father. The secret to success is to know exactly what you want to do, and find out who can do it for you. Her nails shone like justice as she formulated a well structured request for ChatGPT. It took half an hour of tweaking the prompts and unladylike swearing at the machine in English, French and Japanese to get a Python script which did the work for her. A few minutes later she thought she knew where Vic worked, his business email address, and the company switchboard number.

*What shall I do now? I want him to chase me.* Stymied, Olympe fethed around with the computer, writing more search scripts, googling various odd ideas. She went off at a tangent and discovered a company which hired out genuine London black cabs for weddings and sightseeing tours.

"That might be fun.” She said as she looked at her cold chips with disdain. *Wait a moment... If I email Vic he probably gets it on his phone. Because these days everyone has their work email on their phone too.* She thought hard about how to use this nugget of inspiration.

Vic frowned a little as a company-wide memo pinged into his inbox. Then a second. Then a third. His corporate email was a slow tide of meeting invites, half of which he never read, and it didn’t make any difference. He flicked his thumb over the notifications, arching an eyebrow.

“God, who sends these stupid emails?” He pocketed the phone again and leant back, stretching his arms. A breeze stirred the umbrella over his table. He watched a tram rattle past, his mind drifting again to Olympe. Her smile. Her accent. Her fierce, funny eyes.

He rubbed his jaw. “She’s not the type to sit still.” Vic checked his phone again. Nothing from Tommo. Nothing unexpected in his inbox, just work spam, meeting invites, a couple of 'urgent' flagged emails he knew weren’t really urgent. He huffed a quiet laugh to himself. “Like I’m gonna read them on a day off.”

He leant back, stretching, watching the sunlight glint off passing cars. He wondered if Olympe had already decided he’s not worth chasing. Or if she was the type to expect him to chase her. “Should’ve asked for her number,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead.

A couple walked past holding hands, laughing about something he didn't catch. Vic watched them a moment longer than necessary, then stood and headed for the street. “Maybe I’ll drop past the shop again. Or Tommo’s. Or…” He shook his head, chuckling quietly. “God, I’m hopeless.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 16: Geeking Out

The clouds had burned off by mid-afternoon, leaving Sydney’s streets bright and hot for late autumn, the sun bouncing off the asphalt in ripples and shimmer.

GeekStar Cybercafé was a long, narrow shop wedged in between a vintage record store and a Vietnamese bakery, filled with softly humming tower PCs and mismatched swivel chairs. Posters for Final Fantasy, Kingdom Hearts, and Evangelion faded in the dark, plate glass windows, peeling slightly at the corners. The air smelt of stale snacks, cheap pot noodles, and carpet in dire need of a deep clean.

Olympe sat at a terminal in a corner with good lines of sight, the only woman in the place, her short, honey-blonde hair hidden under her signature white and pop art bucket hat. Her camel colour cardigan was buttoned half-way up against the air conditioning. Her Loewe/Ghibli collab handbag, sporting a cluster of soot sprites dyed into the sage green leather, sat next to the keyboard. Her long legs were wrapped in tight, high-waist bluejeans. Her bum looked amazing when she stood up and stretched, catching the eyes of nearby male nerds.

Right now she was busy clicking through a pastel-hued Otome game, a dreamy university romance set in Tokyo. Quiet frustration gnawed at her. She was playing in Japanese, for the sake of language practice, but she couldn't read at all well. She couldn’t focus. Every earnestly handsome anime boy reminded her by contrast of Vic’s slapdash grin.

Someone pulled up next to her with the squeak of a Daleking chair.

“Uh… Hi,” a tentative male voice. “Is that, is that the ‘Cherry Blossom Ending’ route?”

Olympe looked around.

The boy looked tall but slouched, skinny in a faded Zelda tee-shirt, glasses slipping down his nose. His backpack was plastered with anime pins. He fiddled with the straps nervously. “Sorry, I, I couldn’t not ask. Nobody ever picks that route. You’re either a secret romantic or… or you didn’t know it’s the hardest one to unlock.” He blinked at her, then gestured awkwardly at her handbag. “And, er, Soot sprites from Totoro? That’s like, that’s S-tier Ghibli, you’ve got taste.”

She glanced at her bag, then back at the screen.

He grinned, his slightly crooked teeth charming in a boy-next-door way. “I’m Alex, by the way. You new here? Not many girls come in, I mean, not many cool girls. Wow, that sounded, Sorry. Uh. You came here to game or to, er, chill?”

She paused the game and speared a cold hot chip with a disposable wooden fork. She looked at Alex again, quietly waiting for him to carry on talking. Olympe had found that silence often pulled more words from a suspect than a clever question.

Alex, hopeful, adjusted his glasses. “Or, wait, do you cosplay? Because you could totally pull off Nausicaä. Or like, Lady Eboshi, but, y’know, younger. Or, uh…” He trailed off, face starting to redden, eyes darting shyly to her screen. “Uh, Hi.”

Olympe just stared at him.

Meanwhile, Vic’s old Audi rumbled past in traffic, the window down. He was scanning the pavements as if searching for someone. But the cybercafé’s dark glass hid her from view.

Olympe's gaze flicked again between the soot sprites on her Loewe Puzzle bag -- which genuinely was worth more than Vic's gakky old Audi she'd never seen -- and Alex's nerdy face. She decided Alex was probably harmless. Anyone who’s really into Studio Ghibli films is fundamentally a decent person.

"I've been known to cosplay, Alex.” Not saying what or when, because her costumes had been part of various undercover roles; Bunny Girl, Skimpy Barmaid, Marvellous Ladybug and Marinette, among others. “What's your favourite film from Studio Ghibli?" She pronounced it Gibli rather than Jibli because she could speak some Italian. It was an Italian word. That was how it should be pronounced, and sometimes it amused Olympe to provoke people in minor ways.

Alex brightened immediately, his grin stretching wider, a gold filling visible in one molar. “Oh, hell yes!” he enthused, bouncing his legs. “I knew you had the vibe. Okay, okay, this is like, impossible to choose, but if I had to pick one?” He leaned conspiratorially closer, his voice dropping into nerdy reverence. “It’s gotta be Princess Mononoke. Like, that soundtrack? Ashitaka’s theme? Chills every time.”

He pushed his glasses up his nose with a forefinger, then paused, squinting at her. “Wait, did you just say Gibli?” His brows drew together, half-confused, half-amused. “Oh man. Oh, I see. You’re one of those. You do it just to mess with people, huh?” He chuckled. “Respect. Very chaotic neutral of you.” He shifted, peering at her screen again, then at the handbag, her tee-shirt, then back to her face, processing like a game character trying to level up an interaction. “So… what brings you here today? You on a quest? Or just, like, hiding out from the heat?”

Unseen, Vic had double-parked outside a shoe shop, glancing absently across the street as he leaned against the Audi’s door. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it, his mind elsewhere, the faintest crease between his brows.

Alex waited, his grin a little hopeful now. “Also, not to be that guy, but… if you’re doing Cherry Blossom Ending, you’re gonna need the secret library key from the sports festival sidequest. I can, uh, I can show you the walkthrough if you want.” He hesitated. “Unless you’re more of a purist?” A hint of nervous admiration coloured his words. Olympe’s Ghibli tee, the exclusive Loewe bag, her confident posture, he thought she was some kind of boss-level player who’d casually strolled into his world.

"I'm just trying to figure out how to find a boyfriend,” Olympe told him. “Have you got any ideas to help me with that, Alex?"

Alex froze, his mouth slightly open, like a dialogue box that had popped up and the player hadn’t clicked Next yet. “Whoa.” He blinked. “Okay. Wow.” He gave a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh. Usually people ask me for, y’know, like, cheat codes or anime recs, not, actual life advice.”

He glanced at her game again, then back, his eyes earnest behind the glasses. “But, uh… I mean, you’re already doing better than most. You’re out in the world. And, okay, look, if I was a dating sim NPC, I’d say the key is maxing out charisma and initiative stats. But since I’m just a guy in a Zelda tee.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I guess, maybe go where the kinda guys you like would hang out?”

He squinted thoughtfully. “Do you, er, like, nerds? Or sporty guys? Or um, like, brooding mysterious types who sit on rooftops at night?” He chuckled softly. “You’ve got that cool but kinda intense vibe, so you’d probably need someone who can keep up, y’know?” He leant on the desk beside her, warming to the question. “Or, or are you thinking more of, like, a romantic rival arc? Because if so, you could make a list of potential rivals and start eliminating them through increasingly dramatic encounters…” He trailed off, realizing he was getting too anime with it.

Outside, Vic was tapping impatiently at his phone, frowning at the lack of replies from anyone. He glanced across the street again, feeling an inexplicable tug toward the dark café windows but brushing it off.

Alex grinned at Olympe again. “Or you could just let fate handle it. Sometimes the best route is the unexpected one.” He paused, pushing his glasses up again. “But I mean, if you’re taking applications…” He gave a hopeful, nervous half-smile. “Not to be, like, weird, but, yeah.”

Olympe listened carefully to Alex's advice because she felt she could use all the help she could get in her quest. *Perhaps Vic's into video games?* she wondered. Then the nerd made his play. She smiled kindly.

"I've got a rule not to date anyone old enough to be my father or young enough to be my son, so actually you're in the possible zone. But honestly, Alex...,” she paused a second, “Look, the modern etiquette is when you want to hit on a girl, you should give her your number, then it's her decision whether to contact you back."

Alex’s eyes widened, admiration flickering through his bashful grin. “Oh… oh wow. That’s, ” He let out a soft laugh, genuinely impressed. “That’s kinda badass, actually.” He straightened up a little, emboldened. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Totally fair.”

He dug hastily into his pocket, fishing out a slightly crumpled till receipt and a stubby pencil. “Uh, hang on. This was my ramen bill from lunch, but, er,” He flipped it over and scrawled something carefully, his tongue poking out in concentration.

He held it out to her, still warm from his body heat. “Here. My number.” He pushed his glasses up again, gaze earnest and hopeful. “No pressure. Just, y’know. If you ever wanna talk games, or movies, or, plot out more creative boyfriend-finding strategies.” A pause. A sheepish chuckle. “And thanks for being nice about it. Most girls just, like, ghost me or even throw coffee.”

Vic leaned into his car window, frowning as Jules’ voicemail picked up for the third time. A group of uni students crossed between him and the cybercafé, obscuring his view again.

Alex tucked his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “You’re seriously cool.” A shy grin. “Good luck on your quest.” He hesitated, then gave her a mock salute before wandering back toward the snack counter, glancing over his shoulder once with a goofy, hopeful smile.

*He's actually quite nice, for a nerd,* Olympe thought, watching him buy a tin of some lurid energy drink and a packet of crisps. *But the fact is I'm the one sitting in an Internet café playing a romance simulation instead of cracking on with the case.*

Olympe put Alex's number into her purse, where who knew, it might eventually become the cause of a quarrel with some boyfriend or other. If she ever found one. At any rate, she felt she was getting good at collecting guys' numbers except for the one she actually wanted, Vic's. She refocused on the mission, switched off the Otome game, and started to plan a search grid based on her knowledge of Vic's office location, his regular hangouts -- the beach and Board Walk -- and his possible home address, based on his likely salary revealed by LinkedIn and an AI survey of apartment rental prices in the Sydney suburbs.

*Vic’s going to commute to work by public transport because it's insane to drive around Sydney. But if he wants to go to the beach he'll drive so he can carry his board. Unless he leaves his board at the shop and goes by bus. Or maybe he lives within walking distance of the beach?*

She input a series of different values for these variables, to see how the triangulation results changed.

Meanwhile, Vic had driven off from his spot in the street outside. The old Audi rumbled away from the bakery. He merged into the snaking Sydney traffic, the late afternoon sun glowing across his dirty windscreen. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel, frustration simmering under his skin. Every idea seemed like a dead end.

“Jules isn’t picking up. What the hell am I even doing?” he muttered aloud, the streets blurring past. He didn’t even know her surname. Just Olympe. And the image of that electric Vespa. He thought he might spot her again at the beach. But no. There were plenty of late afternoon beachgoers, and no sign of an electric Vespa in the car park.

He sighed and turned back towards the city again.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 17: Direct Action

Sometimes the only useful thing to do is to get a manicure. Olympe searched up a highly rated salon called Secret Butterfly. It was only 450 metres walk away, so she quickly rang and booked an immediate appointment. The city’s stale air was a stew of traffic fumes and cooking smells from the little restaurants which peppered the laneways. She took off her cardigan as she strode, the heels of her chunky La Botte Gardiane boots clonking on the pavement.

At Secret Butterfly, Olympe settled down to think quietly while she got a thorough manicure and pedicure, with matching taupe polish on her fingers and the toes no-one would see if she was thumping around in kick-ass footwear. As the work began -- warm soak, meticulous cuticle push, and gentle filing -- Olympe finally let her shoulders relax, sinking into the slow rhythm of the place. Soft lo-fi beats played over hidden speakers. The aesthetician’s touch was deft, precise. Olympe’s phone sat face-down on her lap, in Do Not Disturb mode, but her mind wasn’t still.

*Okay. I know where he works, but he’s not reading his work email. I’ve got no phone number, no home address. He likes Coogee Beach and that surf shop. Maybe I’ll have to do a stake-out.* She blew out a breath, muttered, “Detective work, my arse.”

The technician glanced up with a smile. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Olympe replied automatically in the British way, which meant it was not fine. She offered a grin. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud about a little problem I’ve got.”

Outside, the sunlight slid down the walls of the city, gilding balconies and bus shelters. Somewhere out there, Vic was circling back toward the Board Walk, frustrated but stubborn, hoping against hope that somehow she might turn up there again.

Olympe studied her reflection in the salon mirror, the tight tee-shirt flaunting its pattern of soot sprites, her legs crossed at the ankle. She wiggled freshly buffed fingers and toes, approving the gleam. *One step closer.* She pondered her next move, methodical and cool, as the taupe polish dried under the lamp. She thought of calling in a favour from a grizzled AFP detective chief inspector in Perth, where she had worked a case a year ago. A case which went wrong in an unexpected way, leaving both Interpol and the Australian Federal Police deeper in her debt than anyone could have anticipated. But Perth was a continent away, and Olympe decided it was bad strategy to expend such a powerful asset on a trivial boyfriend hunt.

Then she recalled another old case, a very complex gambling embezzlement caper. Her tech support had been puzzling over how to find the user data needed to build up some crucial Bayesian probability functions. Someone told the cyberpunk to just ask people she knew who gambled. This had been a revelation of direct action which would never have occurred to the techie of her own accord. Olympe lifted her phone and dialled Board Walk.

The line rang once, twice, three times. The brrr-brrr rhythm was the same as in the UK, a friendly reminder of home. Jules picked up on the fourth ring, his voice a lazy drawl edged with background noise, a radio, distant laughter, a dog barking somewhere. The slow wash of the sea underneath it all.

“Jules.” She pronounced it the French way -- Zhoole.

“Board Walk Surf Hut, Jules speakin’.” A pause. “Do I know your voice?”

Olympe pictured him leaning against the counter in a faded tee shirt, a pencil tucked behind his ear, his bare feet sandy from running out to check the racks. She flipped back to her natural pommy accent. “I’m Vespa Lady. And I’m a very valuable customer.”

“You callin’ for a board then?” Jules asked, his curiosity piqued. “You sound like a girl on a mission.” In the background, a familiar sound filtered through, a tinny radio playing the Triple J afternoon show, the sea just audible beneath it. “Vic’s not here now, if that’s what you’re after,” Jules added knowingly. “Reckon he was tryin’ to track you down earlier. Poor bastard looked like he’d lost a winning scratchie.” A faint grin crept into his voice. “Thought you two might’ve already got a room, the way he was pining.”

“What!?”

He chuckled under his breath, then softened. “You want me to give him a message if he swings back in? Or you need somethin’ moved along faster?”

Outside the window of Secret Butterfly, the shadows were lengthening over the rooftops, the last warmth of the day dripping like syrup across the city. Olympe sniffed hard in annoyance, then she drew a deep breath to calm herself.

"I'm Olympe. You remember me from when I came with Vic a few days ago and said I was interested in buying a board. I spoke with a French accent. How late are you open?" There was a hot minute of silence on the line, as if Jules had momentarily paused, jarred by the non-sequitur, needing to rewinding his mental tape.

“Ohhh… That Olympe!” he exclaimed, the name rolling off his tongue like he was testing its flavour again. “Right, right, Frenchy name. My bad.” He chuckled, warm and friendly. “Yeah, I remember. Blonde, tight one-piece rash suit and a sundress, kinda scary, but in a hot way.” He paused again, some clatter of metal in the background. “We’re open till six today, but I’m not rushin’ to close if someone’s serious about buyin’. You thinkin’ of comin’ down? I’ve still got that fish tail you were eyein’, nobody’s nabbed it yet.”

He dropped his voice, conspiratorial. “Vic was moonin’ over it, said somethin’ about how it’d suit you. Reckon he was picturin’ you on it already.” A snort of laughter. “Man’s got it bad, if you ask me. You wanna swing by? Or I can tee somethin’ up for tomorrow if you’re still shoppin’.”

Outside, the last sunlit edges of the buildings glowed soft gold. Vic had just pulled into a pretty gakky servo out towards Bondi, low on petrol and his phone almost dead. He stared in frustration at a charger that wasn’t working.

Olympe side-eyed Jules even though he couldn't see her. "I want to come in and look seriously at a board, but I want Vic there to help me. Call him up and get him down. I'll be with you in 30 minutes." She checked her wristwatch. “By 18:00.”

Jules let out a low whistle, clearly grinning through the phone. “Well, damn, boss lady. You don’t muck about.” A pause as he shifted the receiver, tucking it under his chin while scribbling something down. “Alright, consider it done. I’ll call him, pull the ol’ ‘I need you to check somethin’ on the fins’ routine. He’ll come runnin’. Man’s like a labrador when you throw a stick.” He chuckled, softer now. “Glad you’re pickin’ a board, Olympe. Vic said you had good instincts for it. And between you an’ me,” His voice dropped into a stage whisper. “He’s been wound tighter’n a drum since you left the other day. Think it’s doin’ him good, you keepin’ him on his toes.”

There was a background clatter as Jules flipped the shop sign to ‘OPEN TILL SHE SAYS.’ “Thirty minutes. 18 hundred. Gotcha. I’ll put the kettle on. And Olympe?” He paused, sniggered. “Don’t break him too bad, yeah?” The line clicked off.

The warm air carried the city’s buzz and hum, mixing with the faint sound of cockatoos shrieking in the trees. Vic’s phone lit up with Jules’s name just as he threw the useless charger out of the window. He snatched it up, his brow furrowing, then slowly lifting as Jules explained.

“Oh... Oh!” Vic leaned back in his seat, and a grin spread over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m comin’.”

<<To Be Continued...>>

Chapter 18: Meet-cute Strategy

At Secret Butterfly, Olympe’s nails gleamed smooth and subtle under the lamplight, the taupe polish complementing her sun-kissed skin. Her boots thunked back onto the floor as she stood, sliding her cardigan over her shoulders again. She swung the Loewe Puzzle bag lightly at her hip.

The city waited.

Decision made, her agency confirmed as she got the boys dancing to her tune, Olympe left the nail bar and raised a gleaming hand to flag down a taxi.

"The Board Walk surf shop over at Coogee Beach, please," she requested. "I've got an appointment at 18:00 so don't get me there until 18:15. Due to tactics." She refreshed her fragrance, Creed Erolfa, from a travel atomiser as she watched the central Sydney traffic drag by.

The cab driver, a middle-aged guy with a salt-and-pepper beard and mirrorshades, glanced back at her in the rear view mirror with a knowing smirk. “Tactics, eh?” he said, merging into traffic between a bus and a startled cyclist like he was pulling an Immelman turn.

“Sounds like a man’s involved.”

Olympe settled into the seat, the cool leather pressing against her back as she crossed her legs at the ankle. Her polished nails caught the dying sun as she flicked the travel spray open. The soft mist of Erolfa bloomed in the cab’s interior, citrus and wild herbs, hot stone, brine, a subtle reminder of the ocean she was heading toward. The city flowed past in streaks of gold and shadow, pedestrians bunching at crosswalks, neon signs flickering to life.

The driver whistled low as they crawled through an intersection. “Coogee’s gonna be busy tonight. You got a date, or a showdown?”

Olympe’s lips curved into a sly smile as she watched the world scroll by outside. “A cunningly planned meet-cute.”

The driver chuckled. “He doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”

She didn’t answer, just lifted her chin, the breeze from the open window brushing her cheek, her eyes sparkling beneath the messy fringe of her honey-blonde hair.

Somewhere ahead, at the surf shop, Vic leaned against the front counter, his damp curls pushed back from his forehead, watching the door like a man waiting for a storm, or maybe praying for one. Jules leaned in from the storeroom, smirking. “She’s comin’, mate.”

“Yeah,” Vic murmured, half-grinning, half-nervous. “I know.”

When the taxi turned on to Coogee Bay Road Olympe caught a view of the sea, wine-dark and gleaming under the last band of coral sky. Her phone buzzed silently in her lap. She ignored it.

Tactics.

The sky over the Board Walk surf hut was going that deep indigo, as the last threads of daylight pulled out from Coogee. Vic stood behind the counter, his arms folded across his chest, one heel kicked back against the wall. He watched the glass door like it might swing open any second. Like he could make her silhouette appear by willpower. His fingers tapped out a slow rhythm against his bicep. He was beginning to have doubts.

“What the hell am I even doing?”

Jules had disappeared into the back again, leaving Vic alone with the low hum of the fridge and the faint slap of waves from the beach down the road. He moped disconsolately. Olympe hadn’t promised anything, only issued demands. Jules’s voice drifted from the stock room. “You don’t even know if she’s actually coming for you, mate.”

“Not helping.”

He scrubbed a hand through his long hair, leaving it messier than before. His shirt stuck a little at the small of his back. He’d ditched the hoodie earlier when the afternoon heat peaked. Now the evening air had begun to cool, leaving a slight chill to creep in through the open door. He stepped forward, resting his hands on the counter, leaning into them.

*She’s got that look. That whole ‘I’ll let you think you’ve got a chance, but really I’m three moves ahead’ thing. And you? You’re just…* He huffed out a breath, half a laugh, half a resigned sigh. *I’m just a bloke with an old car with sand in the seats and no idea how women work.* But under the self-deprecation, something buzzed in his chest. Stubbornly hopeful. *I’m still here though. Still waitin’. Like a damn puppy.*

A pair of tourists wandered past the shop window, glancing in at the boards stacked neatly inside. One pointed, the other shook their head. Vic barely noticed, thinking furiously about Olympe. *She could’ve called. Could’ve texted. Hell, she could’ve asked Jules for my number days ago.* He straightened, pacing behind the counter, then stopped. *But she didn’t.* His lips quirked, slow, crooked. He spoke aloud.

“She’s makin’ an entrance.” Somehow Vic liked that. Five past six. Headlights swung across the shopfront as a car passed. Vic stepped forward, hands braced on the counter’s edge, pulse kicking up, heat blooming across his chest despite the cooling breeze.

*Alright, Olympe,* he thought, his grin widening. *Let’s see what you’ve got.*

Nothing. He stood behind the counter, arms folded across his chest, gaze fixed on the doorway as if hope would pull Olympe to him. His thumb rubbed slow circles against his bicep, jaw shifting as he thought. *Olympe.* He tried the name out in his mind again, tasting the shape of it. *Never heard one like that before. Kinda regal. Kinda sharp.* He pushed his shaggy hair back with a restless hand.

*Jules reckons she’s comin’. Could’ve fooled me.*

The surf shop was quiet now, just the fridge humming and the faint rhythmic whisper of distant waves, mingling with traffic. *No last name. No number. Not even a solid reason she’s showin’ up again, except… she said she wanted a board.* A wry huff escaped him. “Yeah. Sure.” He stepped out from behind the counter, pacing once, sneakers squeaking faintly on the worn boards. *She’s not like the others. Doesn’t follow the script. Didn’t even give me a bloody phone number.* He glanced at the clock. 10 past six.

*I guess that’s it. Should’ve known better than to wait.*

And yet, he still waited. Arms folded again, leaning on the door frame, watching the pavement outside. 15 past six. A cab pulled up to the kerb, its lights glowing up the shop with hope. Vic straightened, his heart giving a little kick against his ribs. A silhouette stepped out, tall, svelte, female. Honey-blonde hair caught the low evening sunlight. He felt a slow grin curve his lips, shaking his head at himself.

“Olympe.” He didn’t know her last name. He didn’t know even half of what he wanted to know.

But she was here.

<<To Be Continued...>>

Chapter 19: Funboards and Fishtails

Olympe decanted herself from the taxi and paid the fee with a generous tip, because the little people were important, in the hard-boiled detective world she still hadn't entirely left behind; the cab drivers, waitresses and receptionists, who saw so much of what went on in life. Besides, Olympe had plenty of money, and the point of money was to spread it around so it would do good by Maynard Keynes’s multiplier effect. She intended to spread some money over Jules's counter now, to do herself some good with a new surf board, and do Jules good with boosted monthly sales figures. She paused for a moment to unbutton her cardigan and adjust the fit of her tee-shirt before making her entrance. Some guys gave better discounts to girls in tight clothing.

The LED “Open” sign glittered faintly in the window. The door had a hand lettered board hanging inside the glass: OPEN TILL SHE SAYS. Inside, the glow of shop lights spilled over racks of boards, fins, leashes, wetsuits, tins of wax, combs, rash tops, all the stuff surfers need.

*Money’s no use unless it moves.* The thought flitted through her mind, a line from Economics 101, a lecture long ago. Olympe had taken it to heart. Good causes, good people, good strategies, all needed power. Sometimes that energy was a fat tip for a weary cabbie, or a purchase from the scruffy but earnest surf guy who’d been decent enough to play along. Tonight it was a surfboard. And whatever strings came attached. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as she stepped forward, Loewe Puzzle bag swinging gently at her side.

Inside, Vic straightened instinctively at the sound of boots on timber. His breath caught for a beat, not from surprise, but from the inevitable gravity she seemed to carry with her, like a tide rolling in. Jules emerged from the back, grinning broadly. “Evenin’, Olympe.” He slapped Vic on the back. “Told ya she’d show, mate.”

Vic was leaning casually against the counter, though his smile had an edge of relief tucked beneath its crooked charm. “Took your time.” His gaze flicked over her, the outfit neat, immaculate nails, confidence thumming in every step. “Glad you did.” Jules gave a mock salute. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. Holler if you wanna see the new fins.” He vanished into the storeroom, the bead curtain clattering in his wake. Vic tilted his head at her, arms folded loosely. “So.” His grin deepened, lazy and warm. “You ready to ride, or you’re just here to keep me guessin’?”

Right then, Olympe looked nothing like a surfie. Not even like a tourist wandering a bit off piste. She looked like a woman who knew how to present herself in casual but finely judged apparel and accessories. The black diamonds of her earrings subtly matched the soot sprites of her tee-shirt and handbag. White, black, shades of brown of her cardie and green of her bag, her taupe nails, Parisian boots, and flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. Tight jeans accentuated her sleek backside and her long legs. Fit to slay.

"Hello, Vic. I was hoping I might find you here,” she said cooly, as if it wasn’t all planned. “You do remember you promised to help me choose a board?"

Vic let out a low whistle under his breath, not even trying to hide the appreciation in his gaze as he took her in fully. There she was, standing in the middle of the salt-scuffed, wax-smelling surf shop, looking like… well, like she’d wandered off the pages of some glossy fashion spread that pretended to be casual. Every detail aligned, effortless but deliberate, the black diamonds glinting on her ears, the monochrome play of the soot sprites on her tee and bag, the muted elegance of taupe nails resting lightly against denim hips.

And those boots. Hell, the boots could’ve walked in by themselves and demanded respect.

Vic’s grin widened, softening at the corners. “Yeah, I remember.” He stepped out from behind the counter, arms relaxed at his sides, his usual slouch pulled a little taller without even thinking about it. “Didn’t reckon you’d take me up on it, though.” His eyes sparkled as he tilted his head. “Didn’t reckon you’d find me, either.”

He walked toward the board racks, glancing back at her over his shoulder, inviting. “C’mon. Let’s see what calls to you.” He paused a beat, letting the air between them hum. “Unless… you already had somethin’ in mind?” The shop felt warm and quiet, the outside noise muffled now. Or maybe he just was focussed in the moment. Just the soft creak of old floorboards, the faint salt smell clinging to the fibreglass, the occasional distant slap of a wave against the Coogee shore. Her mediterranean scent.

“Board’s gotta fit the rider, y’know,” Vic added lightly, running a hand over the rail of a sleek longboard. “Balance. Instinct. Style.” His grin tipped a little more lopsided. “Pretty sure you’ve got style sorted.”

Olympe knew for sure that Vic was fronting it. He probably spent the day running around town fruitlessly searching for her. Whether that was true or not, it was the certainty she had in her mind. She was the one who cut through the crap with a machete and got down to business.

"I'm serious about this, Vic. I may be a noob at surfing but I'm not a dilettante. I need a board I can grow with. My old board from Hawaii is still on some fuccing freighter about 2,000 miles away. That's, um..." she calculated from British miles to Australian kilometres on her fingers. "3,200 km to you."

Vic’s grin softened into something genuinely warmer as she spoke. He leaned a little on the rail of the board, letting her words settle between them.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, nodding once. “Yeah, I figured you weren’t here to muck around.” The flicker in his eyes wasn’t just admiration, it was a flicker of respect, that subtle shift from playful banter into something realer. He pushed off the board, rubbing the back of his neck, letting his stance relax into something less performative, more him.

“Didn’t think you were a dilettante, Olympe,” he said, letting the name roll off his tongue again, this time smoother. “Just didn’t wanna assume what you were after.” He moved along the rack, fingertips brushing rails, fins, tails, tracing the lines like a man scanning a library shelf for the right book. “If you’re serious about growin’ with it, you want somethin’ that won’t baby you, but won’t throw you off every other wave either.”

He paused at a funboard, sleek and pale seafoam under the lights. “This one’s got a bit of length, easier to catch waves, but enough maneuverability once you get confident. Not as cruisy as a longboard, not as twitchy as a shortie.” He looked back at her, lips quirking. “Sound like what you’re after?”

He stepped aside to let her approach, his gaze lingering appreciatively again at the contrast she made against the racks of sandy, wax-smeared boards. “Or do you wanna try holdin’ a few, see what fits under your arm? Sometimes the board picks you.” A wry grin tugged at his mouth. “Kinda like… the magic wand thing. But saltier.”

The low growl of a passing ute drifted in from the street. Inside, it felt like their own little quiet orbit in the middle of Coogee.

"Wand thing. You mean my vibrator?" The only magic wand Olympe could think of was her rechargeable Hitachi personal massager, a sex toy by any other name she'd spent more time with than she liked in recent weeks. "How did you know about that -- A lucky guess?"

Vic blinked, once, twice, completely caught off guard, a flush rising fast under his sun-warm skin.

“Wait, what?” he spluttered, nearly knocking a softboard off its rack as he straightened up too fast. “No, no, no, not, not that kind of wand!”

His ears went red even as he tried to recover, scrubbing a hand down his face, a helpless laugh breaking free. “Bloody hell, Olympe, I meant like, like Harry Potter, yeah? Y’know, the whole ‘the wand chooses the wizard’ thing?” He shook his head, laughing again, half mortified, half amused. “But, okay, wow. You… really just threw that out there, huh?” He leaned against the rack, grinning, eyes shining with reluctant admiration. “You don’t miss a beat, do you?” A pause, then he raised a teasing brow. “Didn’t realize you were so… magically inclined.”

Jules’ muffled cackling floated in from the storeroom. He was clearly eavesdropping. Vic sighed, smiling crookedly, shaking his head. “Right. So, boards. Definitely boards.” He gestured emphatically toward the lineup. “Let’s… stick to the fiberglass kind before you break my brain entirely.” But his grin didn’t fade, and there was an extra warmth in his gaze now, a gleam of delight at her mischief.

Olympe was never afraid or ashamed of her sexuality. The first glimpse Vic had had of her, the moment she entered his world, unknown at the time, was Olympe peeling off her top and baring her svelte bust to the gaze of the whole beach as she changed into her swimming costume.

"Who cares about Harry Potter? I'm here for a new board. Jules, you fuccing bandit,” she called out, “If Vic can't help me you should. Don't you want to make the sale?"

Vic’s grin stretched wider, his blush lingering but fading into a warm, appreciative glow. He shook his head slowly, like a man both defeated and utterly charmed. “You don’t pull your punches, huh?” he murmured, almost to himself, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

Jules popped his head out of the storeroom door, a surf leash looped over one shoulder, his grin wolfish. “Oi, you callin’ me a bandit? I been waitin’ here ready to sell you a board since Tuesday. It’s lover boy there who’s been stalling.”

Vic shot him a mock glare. “I wasn’t stallin’, I was givin’ her options.”

Jules snorted. “You were admiring the view, ya muppet.” He swung the leash onto a hook and ambled over, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, let’s make this a team effort.” He gave Olympe a once-over, professional this time, eyes flicking from boots to cardigan to tee. “You gonna be usin’ this mostly down here? Or you headin’ up north, little more punch in the swell?”

Vic stepped beside her, folding his arms, watching her with quiet amusement. “He’s askin’ if you’re planning to mess around in the whitewash or actually charge a reef,” he translated lightly.

Jules pointed a finger at Vic without looking. “Thank you, surf whisperer.”

Vic chuckled, glancing sidelong at Olympe. “He’s not wrong though. You wanna board you can throw around later, or somethin’ to keep ya steady while you’re gettin’ your sea legs?”

Jules tilted his head thoughtfully. “You’re tall, got muscle, but you’re light. Could handle somethin’ with a bit of width so it’s forgiving. But not too heavy, you’ll wanna carry it solo. You’ll outgrow a foamie in a month, guaranteed.”

Vic nudged her elbow gently. “You’re callin’ the shots, Olympe.” His eyes crinkled with warmth. “Where do you wanna take it?”

The shop lights glinted softly off the rails and fins, and through the open door, the surf rumbled under the indigo sky, calling.

"Of course I'm light! Were you inverse implying I've got excess baggage?" Olympe took up a pose to emphasise her athletic, boyish figure, though the subtle swell of her bust and the rondure of her butt reminded the guys that she was a female of their mammalian species. "I’ll beat you at swimming or running whenever you like."

Jules let out a low whistle, raising both palms in mock surrender, his grin splitting wide. “Whoa-ho! Alright, alright, no shade intended!” He gave her figure an exaggerated once-over, eyebrows bouncing. “Girl’s got fight and form, point taken.”

Vic’s mouth curved slowly, his gaze tracking her pose with a heat that wasn’t entirely playful. The quiet admiration in his eyes deepened, the lazy grin sharpening at the edges.

“Nah, nobody said you had baggage,” he murmured, leaning back against the board rack, arms folded again, his posture loose but his gaze locked. “You’re streamlined, Olympe. Built for speed.” A beat, his grin tipping more crooked. “Though for the record, I’m not bettin’ against you in a sprint. Swim… maybe.” He winked. “Got a decent kick when I’m motivated.”

Jules cackled, slapping a hand against the nearest board. “Vic, mate, you’re so whipped already it’s painful.”

“Shut up, Jules,” Vic shot back without heat, still smiling at her.

He pushed off the rack, stepping closer, his tone softening. “If you’re this competitive, you’re gonna want somethin’ that won’t hold you back once you catch the bug.” He gestured toward a 7’6” mid-length, sleek and pale with a subtle sand tint. “Bit more length for early paddling power, narrow enough to start turnin’ once you get your feet under you. Won’t babysit you, but won’t throw you straight into the deep end either.”

Jules nodded sagely. “That one’s a keeper. And hey, looks good under the arm. You’ll carry it like a pro.”

Vic tilted his head, watching her thoughtfully. “But if you’re gunnin’ to smoke me on a wave too, we might need to size down.” A glint of challenge sparkled in his eye. The shop around them felt like it had pulled tighter, the warm lights, the salt-laced air, the smell of wax and neoprene wrapping them in a little cocoon of possibility. Sharp pine of her Erolfa cutting a high note.

Olympe looked at both boards, considering the options Vic and Jules offered her. She could afford two planks, or three, even, but it would be stupid. She had to make a choice and work through the consequences, even if she needed to change later. Resilience and adaptability were important life skills.

"I'll trust you, Vic."

Vic stilled at that, like the words hit somewhere deeper than just about a surfboard.

His smile softened, the cocky edge giving way to something gentler, warmer. He stepped closer, nodding once, deliberate. “Alright,” he said quietly, his voice threaded with a kind of quiet pride. “We’ll go with this one.” He ran a hand along the rail of the 7’6” mid-length, tapping it lightly, flicking the fins. “She’s solid. Got a thruster fin setup. She’ll look after you till you’re ready to push harder. And when you are, you’ll know.”

Jules grinned from the sidelines, clapping his hands together. “Done deal! Let’s get her waxed up and I’ll sort ya with a leash and a cover.”

Vic tilted his head at Olympe again, eyes crinkling. “You trust me now,” he murmured, his tone half-teasing, half-quietly moved. “Gotta warn ya… dangerous habit.”

But even as he joked, there was a directness in his gaze that said he wouldn’t take it lightly. Like he knew the weight of trust. He lifted the board gently from the rack, holding it upright beside him, then gestured toward the counter with his chin. “Wanna ring it up now? You could take it for a spin first light tomorrow.”

Decision made, for good or ill, Olympe acted. She slapped her bank card on the counter. "But you need to store it here for me. I haven't got a car yet," she told Jules.

Jules beamed as he caught up the card, spinning it deftly between his fingers like a magician doing a trick. “You got it, boss,” he said, sliding it into the reader. “Storage’s no problem. I’ll keep her racked till you’re ready to pick up.”

Olympe tapped in her PIN. The machine beeped approval. Jules handed the card back with a flourish. “Congrats, Olympe. Welcome to the tribe.”

Vic leaned the board gently against the counter, brushing a thumb over the rail as if sealing the deal himself. His grin was quiet now, less about the sale, more about her. “You’re seriously doin’ this,” he said, a little wonder in his voice. “You don’t just talk or walk, you pull the trigger.”

Jules chuckled as he wrapped the board in a padded cover. “Mate, she’s already three steps ahead of you. Better keep up.”

Vic gave a soft snort, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Yeah, I can see that.” He glanced back at Olympe, studying her silhouette against the glow of the doorway, the way her boots planted solidly, her shoulders relaxed but ready. “You got plans tonight, or just tickin’ off life goals one by one?” Outside, Coogee hummed under streetlights, the evening air cooling into something breezy and alive.The sky had deepened to a velvet blue, the glow of the setting sun spilling gold across the pavement, catching the warm tones of her cardigan, the gleam of her boots, the quiet power in her stance. Vic glanced at her again, that slow grin creeping back. “You look like you just conquered somethin’. Feels good, huh?” His grin tipped sideways. “You need a ride back? Or you collectin’ cab drivers like you collect boards and blokes?”

Olympe played it cool. "I've got a flat in Surry Hills if that's not out of your way to drop me off, Vic."

Vic’s grin deepened, slow and deliberate, a flicker of satisfaction warming his eyes. “Surry Hills, huh?” he drawled, pushing a hand through his curls, letting it fall behind his neck. “Fancy.”

Jules barked a laugh, shaking his head as locked up. “Careful, Vic. She’s got a postcode that could eat you for breakfast.”

Vic tossed Jules a grin without breaking eye contact with Olympe. “Yeah, well. Maybe I’m into danger.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 20: A Lift Home

Vic’s old Audi waited at the kerb, a loyal beast with sun-bleached paint and sand permanently ground into the floor mats. Frankly it looked like it ought to be pensioned off before it died somewhere inconvenient. Olympe’s eyebrows crawled up and down her forehead as she resisted the impulse to comment.

“Don’t judge the ride,” Vic teased. “Ziggy’s got character.” He opened the passenger door with an exaggerated gentleman’s flourish, giving her a playful tilt of his head.

Olympe made no reply. She embarked elegantly. The streetlight gleamed off the Loewe bag at her hip, the black diamonds in her ears flashing a subtle counterpoint as she moved. She racked her seat back several inches to make her long legs comfortable. She realised that Emma had been short. *Well, average, maybe, because I’m actually rather tall.*

“Surry Hills, here we come,” Vic said, sliding into the driver’s seat. *Yeah, she’s got her gak together.* He started the engine, throwing her a sidelong glance as they pulled into traffic. “Tell me somethin’, Olympe. You always go for what you want this fast, or am I just lucky tonight?”

"Maybe I'm the lucky one,” she said. “Is this a date, Vic, or you're just giving me a matey lift uptown?" Olympe sat with her bag on her knees, like she didn't want it to touch the floor. She wound down her window and looked out at the twilit streets. Her Erolfa scent mingled with the sea air.

Vic glanced over at her, his grin shifting into something slower, more thoughtful, the edges softer, warmer. “Dunno,” he said, eyes flicking back to the road as he eased them out into traffic, the Audi’s engine giving a low, steady growl beneath their talk. “Guess that depends on you.”

The city lights spilled over the bonnet. Fractured beams of the low sun spattered the windscreen with gold. Her perfume -- Erolfa -- salty, citrus, hot stone and pine, curled subtly through the cabin, weaving itself into the scent of old leatherette seats and salt clinging to his skin. He stole another glance at her, the way she cradled her bag protectively on her knees, the window down, her short hair barely touched by the breeze, her gaze set outward like she was taking mental notes of everything they passed.

“You reckon you’re the lucky one?” he mused aloud, lips quirking again. “You walked into my favourite shop, picked a board in one shot, got Jules callin’ you boss and me runnin’ errands like some lovesick teenager.” He chuckled under his breath. “Sounds like you’re the one in charge, Olympe.”

A pause as the lights turned red, bathing the cabin in ruby glow. He turned toward her fully then, one arm draped over the wheel, head tilted, a crooked smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “But for the record,” he added, his voice low and sincere now, “I’d like to call it a date. If you want it to be.” The city stretched ahead, flickers of streetlights and shop signs bouncing off glass, the pulse of Sydney at night around them. He nodded toward the horizon, the traffic crawling forward again. “Or just a matey lift uptown.” But the glint in his eye said he was hoping she’d say yes.

Olympe smiled lightly. "Where do you take your girls on dates, Vic? Do you give them your number first, or just pick them up in surf shops?" She reached out without asking permission, switched on the radio, tuning it to a jazz station, taking casual ownership of a little slice of Vic's life. The music programme broke for the 19:00 news. White smoke at the Vatican.

Vic’s grin bloomed wider, slow and delighted, his gaze lingering on her hand at the radio dial, the casual way she reached in and claimed the moment. He liked that. Hell, he liked everything about that. “Well,” he drawled, easing the Audi through an intersection as the sax faded into the radio announcer’s voice, “Normally it’s a pub or the beach or the back of the car with a bag of hot chips and a couple of beers. But this?” He shot her a sidelong glance, warmth flickering in his eyes. “This might be the first time someone picked me up.”

The news crackled on, the solemn voice announcing “white smoke over the Vatican this morning… a new pontiff elected…”

“A new Pope. I hope he's a good one," Olympe said thoughtfully.

Vic chuckled quietly, his grin quirking at the corners. “A new pope, huh. World keeps spinnin’, doesn’t it?” He turned onto a quieter street, the city lights softening into older terraces, flickering lamplight stretching across sandstone and iron balconies. “Hope he’s a good one too,” Vic echoed. “Though I reckon someone’s always disappointed, no matter who they pick.” He let the moment settle, the hum of the engine, the whisper of jazz returning after the news bulletin, her scent curling through the car like a secret message.

“You really reckon you’re the lucky one?” he asked after a beat, softer now. “’Cause from where I’m sittin’, I reckon it’s me.” His hand drummed idly on the wheel as he stole another glance at her, something tender flickering under his lazy smile. “Not every day a woman like you walks into a bloke’s favourite shop and asks for a board, or a ride home.” Outside, the night settled deeper over Sydney, the streetlights gleaming like beads strung through the dark, the city breathing quietly around them.

“To be fair, you offered me a lift, Vic,” Olympe pointed out. “And it’s a chance to talk.” She looked into the past to recall her younger self.

"When I was little, me and my brother, back in the UK, we had summer holidays at the seaside. Sometimes in France, but often somewhere like the Isle of Wight, or Norfolk, or Wales. My father's from a fairly posh family, but he was never up himself. Our big treat was going for fish and chips, hot chips you call them here, and eat it out of the paper wrapping with a little wooden fork, or just your fingers, burning them and sucking the pain away. Huddling under the drizzle and the dive-bomber herring gulls." She looked at him directly. "A hot chips date sounds pretty good, Vic."

Vic’s smile deepened, the grin mellowing into something warmer, gentler, touched with a quiet kind of wonder as he listened. He let her words unfurl, not rushing to fill the pause, steering the Audi through the slower streets of Surry Hills while the city lights flickered through the roadside trees.

“Yeah?” he said softly, glancing sideways at her, a glint of real affection sparking in his eyes. “A hot chips date’s all it’d take, huh?” He chuckled, the sound low and fond, tapping his fingers lightly against the wheel. “Sounds like we’re on the same wavelength, then.”

Another glance, softer still. “Bet you were a scrappy little thing back then. I can just picture you. Hair full of salt and sand, pinchin’ the last chip off your brother’s plate before he could stop ya.” A wistful little smile ghosted across his lips. “Funny, innit? No matter how far you end up from home. Sometimes all you really want is somethin’ simple. A paper bag of chips. That kinda warm, greasy magic.”

He pulled up outside her building, easing the car to a gentle stop beneath the glow of an old streetlamp. The engine idled softly as he turned to her, his eyes steady on hers. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, voice easy but threaded with quiet promise. “Next time, I’ll pick you up proper. Chips, a few beers, somethin’ simple. You, me, and the sea.”

His grin tipping crooked again. “Unless you’ve already got your next three moves planned and I’m just tryin’ to catch up.” He let the question hang lightly, playful but hopeful, waiting, the lamplight gilding his shaggy curls, his face half-shadowed, wholly open.

10 Bloomfield Street was an L-shaped half block of two and a half floors of units arranged around communal gardens. Built in the 1990s and recently refurbished, the structure was mellow yellow stone with most of the units having balconies facing the gardens or the street. Olympe's unit on the first floor had a wide, west-facing balcony over the garden, where she hung her laundry out to dry in good weather, and a small eastern Juliet balcony for her bedroom window. But Vic didn't know this yet.

"I've got the painters in," she said quietly, and looked sideways at Vic's face to see his reaction.

Vic’s brows lifted, caught between intrigue and an involuntary flicker of boyish surprise at the phrase. “Oh, right,” he said, and coughed lightly, a slow grin creeping across his face as understanding, or at least assumption, dawned. “More info than I really needed, but fair play.”

But his eyes gleamed with quiet amusement, warmth curling beneath the grin as he watched her, clocking the sidelong look she gave him, the way she was checking. Testing. He leaned his elbow on the wheel, tilting his head. “Would’ve stayed outta your hair anyway,” he added, the grin settling into something gentler. “You don’t strike me as the type who invites blokes up just ’cause they gave her a lift.”

He glanced up at the building, tracing its mellow stone under the streetlight, the private balconies tucked behind steel balustrades. “Nice spot, though. Looks like you landed on your feet.” He looked back at her, his easy crooked smile returning. “Thanks for lettin’ me bring ya home, Olympe.” He tapped the steering wheel lightly. “I’ll be ready next time you need a lift… or a bag of hot chips.” The engine idled low, as if waiting on her cue.

"Thanks for the lift, Vic." She dipped into the Loewe bag for her phone. "You should give me your phone number, because you don't know the afternoon I’ve had trying to track you down. I found out where you work, though." But Vic's phone was dead, so Olympe handed him a small, police style folding notepad. “Write it down. If you can remember it."

Vic let out a soft, warm laugh, his grin deepening as she handed him the little notepad, its detective vibe not lost on him. “Course I remember it,” he said, pulling a pen from the centre console with a little flourish, clicking it confidently as he scrawled his number in his usual messy, surfer-slanted handwriting. “Not that I get many dames with notebooks askin’ for my details.”

He tore the page out neatly, folding it once, then twice, and slipped it into her hand with a lingering brush of his fingers. “Now you’ve got the upper hand.” His voice dropped lightly, teasingly. He leaned back in the seat, watching her with that lazy, lopsided smile. “Didn’t realize I was bein’ hunted today. Should’ve left a better trail.” A flicker of admiration warmed his gaze again, like he couldn’t quite believe she’d actually pulled it off.

“You’re somethin’ else, Olympe.” He nodded toward the building, playful again. “Go get some rest. Next time I see you, I expect to get hit with at least two of those three moves you’re plannin’.” The engine hummed low, the jazz still soft from the radio, the city wrapped in velvet night.

“Call me Pia,” she smiled. “It’s my special nickname I let close friends use.”

“Pia? Okay, goodnight, Pia.” He nodded, trying to understand the sudden switch of names.

"Good night, Vic. Thanks for the lift. Drive safely." She waited until he was on his way, and waved at him in the rear view mirror.

Vic watched her wave from the kerb, his grin lingering quietly as he shifted the Audi into gear. He tapped the steering wheel lightly in response, lifting his fingers in a small, casual salute through the window. “G’night, Pia,” he murmured again, mostly to himself, watching her silhouette framed in the warm glow of the building’s entrance, the subtle swing of that understated, but utterly luxe, special edition Loewe bag at her hip as she waved.

Pia didn't flash her money around or boast about it, just let it filter slowly into people's awareness by a form of osmosis. Her special edition Loewe Puzzle bag, for example, actually was worth more than Vic's rolling bomb of a car, though a person probably wouldn't know that unless they followed high-end brand fashion. It was well known that rental units weren’t cheap in Surry Hills, though.

Vic pulled away slowly, the engine rumbling, feeling a soft tug in his chest as her figure shrank in the rearview mirror, her wave catching the warm white of the streetlamps like a tiny signal flare. A small, private smile curved his lips as he drove off into the night. The road unwound before him. Inside 10 Bloomfield Street, Pia climbed the stairs to her flat, knowing the balcony overlooked a private slice of peace. It might rain or shine tomorrow. Tonight, the air was still.

Chapter 21: Retail Therapy (and Other Excuses)

Pia had planned to start her day with a dawn run, avoiding the heat and fumes which built up even in early winter. It turned out to be a heavy flow day, though. She felt bloated and a bit crampy, so she decided to relax at home with two paracetamol and a light breakfast.

Eating alone, Pia had no compunctions about using her smartphone at the table. She input Alex's and Vic's contact details, carefully labelling them Gamerboy and Bae. In Pia's mind, granting the use of her special nickname to Vic had made him her boyfriend even if they've never had a proper date or even held hands. She messaged Vic to let him know she had got his number, and to confirm her ID in his phone.

"@Bae: Hey Bae? It's Pia. You'll probably get some odd emails at work -- just ignore them."

Victor’s phone buzzed on his bedside table, vibrating loudly against the cheap wood veneer. He groaned, half-buried under his sheets, and fumbled for it with one hand, knocking over a nearly empty glass of water in the process. Squinting at the screen, still foggy from sleep, he read Pia’s message.

“Hey Bae? It’s Pia. You’ll probably get some odd emails at work -- just ignore them.”

“What emails?” he muttered aloud, then cracked a smile. He typed back, thumbs moving slowly.

“@Pia: Morning, Pia. Cool, ignoring everything until further notice <emoji: smiley face with sunglasses>.” He tossed the phone onto the bed beside him, stretching with a loud groan before rolling over, burying his face in the pillow.

*God, she even texts like a handful… and I’m weirdly into it.* A hot minute passed. He lifted his head slightly. “…wait. Bae?” he said to himself, staring at the ceiling. A grin spread across his face, lazy and amused. He picked the phone back up to save her contact properly. Under “Olympe Pia Reese,” he added a sea wave emoji, because for some reason it felt right. *I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m not stopping,* he thought, finally dragging himself out of bed.

The late-morning Sydney sun streamed through the blinds, casting stripes of light across his cluttered room: three surfboards stacked in the corner, a battered guitar propped against the wall, a pair of board shorts slung over a chair.

He stretched again, glancing at his phone. No new emails yet. *What is she planning?* He grinned, shaking his head as he headed for the shower.

Over in Surry Hills, Pia read Vic's casual reply, tutted, and snapped out a terse response. "@Bae: Don't ignore all work emails! Only ignore the strange ones I sent you." She put her phone on charge, did her Japanese rajio taiso exercises and some yoga, showered, and checked the weather forecast.

**Max 18. Min 15. Cloudy. 40% chance of rain.**

*Tricky,* she thought. *But I'll be indoors most of the time. But the indoors here is too cold from the air conditioning. Bad weather for sandals. It was a waste having my toenails done. No, it's okay, they'll last until the next time I go to the beach.*

Pia did subtle make-up and slotted in white gold stud earrings shaped like crescent moons filled with tiny diamonds. She French tucked a white silk blouse into grey cotton cargo slacks, tailored short at the cuff to show off her ankle length white gogo boots. She tied a colourful Hermès scarf around her neck in an elegant side bow, and hung her oversize Launer handbag across her body. Finally she slung a short, yellow-grey trench coat over her shoulders, and tipped a camel brown fedora towards the back of her head. She took a selfie and sent it to Vic. "@Bae: I'm going shopping."

Victor’s phone buzzed again just as he was stepping out of the shower, towel slung low around his hips. He wiped a foggy patch off the mirror and glanced at the notification. Another message from Pia. And… Oh, an image. He tapped it open.

“Whoa!”

He stared at the selfie, momentarily forgetting to breathe. Pia’s cool, polished, effortlessly put-together look made him grin in disbelief. *Is this what she puts on just to go shopping?* Her crisp white blouse, those sharp cargo pants, the boots, the scarf, that hat. He’d never dated anyone who even owned a scarf like that, let alone tied it like some Parisian heiress. And that bag. He didn’t know the make, but he knew it was expensive. He typed back:

“@Pia: You look Fire. Where are you shopping, a Bond film?”
“@Pia: Also noted about the emails. Will selectively ignore <emoji: big smiley face>.”

He leant back against the bathroom sink, smiling at the image again. *Shopping, huh. Wonder if she’s one of those girls who’s in Zara for three hours… or if she secretly goes hardware store hunting for power tools. Honestly could be either. Or both.* He scrolled up to read her earlier message again, then saved her selfie into her contact info, setting it as the photo that would pop up whenever she called. “Bae,” he said out loud, testing the word, and laughed. “Yeah… I could get used to that.” He started getting dressed himself: a faded black T-shirt, grey chinos, white Vans. Simple. Safe. As he pulled a hoodie over his head, his phone pinged again, another work email. He checked it cautiously.

“Oh. That's what she meant.”

His brow furrowed as he read the subject line: Re: Vic Davern. URGENT. There looked to be at least a dozen similar messages waiting for him.

“gak! What the hell did she do?”

Pia 13Cabbed it over to the vast Westfield Sydney mall, and trotted quickly inside to escape the horror loom of the Sydney Tower above her. Looking at it from nearby triggered her irrational fear of heights. The Westfield official app guided her steps to a number of interesting outlets. She began to accumulate expensive looking carrier bags. Cosmetics from Sephora. Two-tone Marita sunglasses from Bailey Nelson. A 9-carat gold ankle chain from Arms of Eve. She paused for lunch at Babylon, a middle-eastern restaurant which reminded her of the food in Dubai. There were splendid city views from the 7th floor picture windows, but Pia avoided sitting too close. Sipping a Campari and soda as an aperitif, she wondered how Vic was getting on. Her starter arrived before she could message him.

Victor was back at his desk, hair gathered up into a man bun and shoved under a backwards cap, following linked threads of messages through his inbox with a growing sense of dread. *What did she do, what did she do…?* The emails weren’t bad, exactly. But they were…odd. The first one was from HR.

“Hi Victor, just following up on your inquiry yesterday about the salary banding discrepancies, was there a specific case you wanted to discuss?” He frowned. He hadn’t emailed HR. Then one from IT.

“Victor, regarding your request to reset your admin privileges, can you confirm you’re still trying to access restricted archives? Please note this will require departmental signoff.”

“I what?” He clicked into the next email, from the legal team.

“Victor, just confirming receipt of your data retention query. Happy to schedule a briefing on compliance standards if needed.” Victor leaned back in his chair, hands over his face, groaning into his palms. *Pia, what the hell were you digging through?* He checked his Sent email. Nothing there. He tapped out a reply to Pia’s earlier selfie instead of looking for more trouble. “Status update: currently bracing for HR to interrogate me. Should I lawyer up?” Then, after a beat. “Also you’re killing me with those boots!.” He tossed his phone onto the desk, spinning his chair in a slow circle. *She’s gonna be chaos. She already is chaos.* But the grin wouldn’t leave his face.

Meanwhile, in the airy, greenery-draped Babylon restaurant, Pia’s starter arrived, grilled halloumi with pomegranate and honey, gleaming with jewel-toned seeds and fragrant herbs. The hum of lunchtime conversation filled the vast terrace, mingling with the clink of cutlery. Behind her, Sydney’s skyline rose in muted greys under cloudy skies, the sunlight diffused, the windows reflecting the city back at itself. A waitress stopped by to refill her water glass, casting a glance at Pia’s shopping bags stacked beside the chair. “Looks like someone’s had a productive morning,” she said cheerfully.

A buzz from Pia’s phone... Vic’s reply. Should I lawyer up? And then, You’re killing me with those boots.

The waitress lifted her eyebrows at Pia’s grin. “Hot date later?” Nearby, a table of businesspeople were arguing over the bill. Someone’s toddler was squealing at the pigeons outside. Far below, city buses rumbled along Pitt Street. In his office, Vic refreshed his inbox with a sigh, bracing himself for whatever might come next.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 22: Cyber Chaos and Premium Merch

Pia's phone pinged with the special alert she had set for messages from her Bae. She read the DM with delight at his reaction to her boots, and serious worry at the HR interrogation warning.

"@Bae: Oh dear. I may have done a bad thing, Vic. But I can handle it. If you really need a lawyer I've got one on retainer. Just let me know. And if I did do the bad thing, I am very sorry." Next she messaged Alex, the gamer geek from the cybercafé.

"@Gamerboy: Alex, this is Cherry Blossom Girl from yesterday. I need your help. Are you busy today? Can you get to the cyber café in, like, an hour from now?" She attached a selfie so he would recognise her. Not waiting for a reply, Pia paid for her uneaten lunch, gulped down her Campari and soda, and headed for a video game shop.

Victor’s phone pinged again, Pia’s reply, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the mixture of worry and blithe confidence in her words.

“Oh dear. I may have done a bad thing, Vic. But I can handle it. If you really need a lawyer I’ve got one on retainer. Just let me know. And if I did do the bad thing, I am very sorry.” He stared at the message for a long moment. “Oh, she definitely did the bad thing.” he murmured under his breath, still grinning. He typed back: “@Pia: I don’t even wanna know what it was <ROFL emoji>. I’ll hold off on the lawyer for now. But did you hack me??”
“Also, you are extremely forgiven already, FYI.” He added a little heart emoji before sending, paused, then deleted it and sent a smiley instead. Chill, Davern. Don’t get weird. He leant forward, pulling up the HR email again, then another from IT, squinting at the wording. “Data retention query. Admin privileges,” he muttered. “What the hell were you doing, Pia?”

Across the city, Pia’s rapid exit from the restaurant left a flutter of confusion in her wake. The waitress blinked at the untouched halloumi and the neatly stacked shopping bags now gone, watching Pia disappear through the lobby with purposeful strides.

Suitably hidden in the deep bowels of the mall, the video game shop was an LED-lit cave of shelves stacked with merch and collector’s editions. The scent of plastic packaging and warm electronics filled the air. Posters for the latest releases glowed on the walls, and a teenage cashier in a Pokémon T-shirt was assembling a cardboard display stand near the entrance.

“Hey there! Need help finding anything?” he called brightly, glancing up from a messy pile of promo leaflets. Outside, the clouds had thickened into a brooding slate-grey, the temperature edging down, the air heavy with that faint electric smell that meant the atmosphere was flirting with the idea of a thunderstorm but hadn’t fully committed. And back at his desk, Vic tapped his biro against his teeth, jiggling a foot nervously as he stared at the ominous-looking emails piling up in his inbox. *Whatever she’s doing, she’s not done yet, is she?*

Pia shook her phone in frustration, waiting for Alex to reply. The torch function activated. She shook the handset again to switch it off, and cursed aloud in French.

“Quel bordel de merde est-ce que j’ai foutu, moi ?” Alex’s reply finally popped up, but not before Pia’s screen had shown the “delivered” notification for an irritatingly long few minutes.

“@Cherry Blossom Girl: Heyyy!! omg you look SO COOL <emojis: loudly crying face, sparkles>”
“Yeah I can be at the café in like an hour, easy. Do I need to bring anything? Laptop? Snacks? My soul?”
At the bottom, a flurry of stickers: a sweating anime face, a rainbow unicorn, a pixel heart.

Meanwhile, the teenage cashier had wandered over. “Looking for something rare?” he asked, eyeing Pia’s stylish getup with a mixture of admiration and suspicion, as if wondering whether she was about to buy a limited edition for an influencer unboxing video. Outside, a few stray raindrops splattered against the pavement, cool and fleeting. The sky was still mostly holding, but the city felt expectant, the air heavy with that Sydney pre-storm hush.

Victor refreshed his inbox yet again, although he suspected he would regret it. Another IT follow-up had landed. “Hi Victor, we’ve escalated your access request to your department head. Can you please confirm the business need?” He leaned back in his chair, covering his eyes with his hand. “Oh nooooooo!” He texted Pia again.

“@Pia: Okay, uh. So I’m getting escalation emails now. Hypothetically, were you in my work account yesterday?” Then, another thought, as a grin crept across his face again. “Should I be impressed or scared?”

"@Gamerboy: What game do you want the most, Alex?” Pia texted with nimble thumbs. “Bring a set of torx screwdrivers for disassembling computers. I'll see you there soon."

"@Bae, don't worry. It's all under control. Very nearly. I'll explain tonight over dinner."

Alex’s reply came almost instantly, as if he’d been vibrating next to his phone waiting for her message.

“@Cherry Blossom Girl: OH MY GOD are you serious?? I’ve been saving for Elden Ring DLC for months <emoji: loudly crying face x 3 And I have torx!! I’ll bring the whole kit!! This is so cool omg. See you soon boss ><emoji: smiley face with sunglasses>.” Another burst of stickers followed: a chibi knight swinging a sword, a computer with sparkles, and a penguin wearing sunglasses.

The teenager at the video game shop watched Pia intently as she scanned the shelves, his curiosity now fully piqued. “Seriously though, mizz, what are you looking for? We’ve got pre-orders, imports, old gen stuff in the back… Pretty much anything you could want, except maybe a Nintendo Switch 2, cause they all sold out before they even came in.” A faint rumble of thunder rolled somewhere far off, making the glass shopfront tremble slightly.

Victor stared at Pia’s latest message, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “@Bae, don’t worry. It’s all under control. Vey nearly. I’ll explain tonight over dinner.” He tapped a reply: “Dinner sounds dangerously intriguing <emoji: grinning face with sweat>. Can’t wait.” After a pause, he added: “You’re absolutely a menace, btw.” He leaned back, exhaling a low laugh, running a hand through his hair. *Dinner tonight. She’s gonna tell me everything. Or… something.* He closed his work laptop with a decisive snap, staring out of the window at the stormy sky.

“I’m in so much trouble,” he muttered. But it wasn’t boring! He began to feel a sense of investment in his job like he now realised he had lost months ago. And at that moment, another ping from his inbox. “HR meeting request: tomorrow 10am.” “So much trouble.”

"Elden Ring DLC? Do you have it?" Pia asked the gum-chewing kid. The teenager blinked, his gum snapping audibly between his teeth. He sized Pia up again, elegant scarf, luxury bag, those super hot gogo boots, and looked like he couldn’t quite decide if she was serious or trolling him.

“Uh… Elden Ring DLC?” he repeated, scrubbing a hand through his fringe. “You mean Shadow of the Erdtree? Nah, that’s not out yet. Still like… A couple months away, I think? We’re not even taking pre-orders until Bandai confirms the release date.” He leaned one elbow on the counter, curious now. “You buying for someone? Or you play?” Behind him, a giant cardboard cutout of Melina from Elden Ring loomed beside the register, her serene gaze keeping watch over the shop floor.

Outside, the rain had started properly now: a soft pattering at first, then more insistent. Umbrellas bloomed open across the plaza beyond the glass. Meanwhile, Alex’s typing bubble popped up again on Pia’s phone.

“@Cherry Blossom Girl: oh wait do you mean you’re BUYING IT FOR ME??? <emoji: flushed face x3>” And then, as if he couldn’t contain himself: “YOU’RE A LEGEND”

A kilometer away, Victor stared at the HR meeting invite, then out at the rain, then back at his phone, his grin widening helplessly. *She’s chaos,* he thought again. *And somehow, she’s mine.*

"Can I buy a pre-order card for it or something?” Pia asked. “I need it today for a present. I forgot my boyfriend's birthday and I'm toast if you can't save me." She looked on the point of tears. But it might not work on a teenage boy. "I don't care what it costs." The teenager’s eyes widened as Pia laid it on thick, her voice wobbling enough to sound genuinely distressed, a picture of chic desperation in a silk shirt and killer boots. He straightened up fast, gum momentarily forgotten.

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay, don’t cry or anything, uh,” He fumbled with the till, scanning the shelves behind him. “We, er, we don’t have preorder cards yet, but I can check if the JB Hi-Fi upstairs might? Or EB Games?” He hesitated, leaning forward confidentially. “Honestly though? Even if you preorder today, you’re not getting a code or anything to give him right now.”

He chewed his lip, clearly wanting to help but stuck. “But like, we do have a bunch of Elden Ring merch? Hoodies, figures, a sick hardcover artbook?” The cashier glanced around, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “If he’s really a fan, you could do a bundle with merch and tell him the preorder’s locked in. That way you’ve got something physical in hand.” He pulled a sealed collector’s figure of Ranni the Witch from under the counter, holding it up like a prize. “We just got this one in. Very limited stock. Expensive.”

Outside, the rain came down harder, streaking the windows, the city’s neon reflections shimmering in the puddles. Alex messaged again: “@Cherry Blossom Girl: WAIT IS THIS LIKE A SECRET MISSION. omg this rules”

Victor refreshed his email and stared at a second calendar notification: “Legal department has added you to a briefing 11am tomorrow.” “I need a drink,” he sighed.

"Thank you, thank you!” Pia smiled. “I'll take the special doll and a bag to carry it in. And I'll give him money for the game." The cashier beamed, clearly relieved he’d saved the day. “Awesome choice, he’s gonna love it,” he said, carefully wrapping the Ranni box in tissue paper and sliding it into a glossy branded bag. “I’ll chuck in a free poster, too.” He handed it over with a grin. “Good luck with the boyfriend!” Pia swiped her card for the merch and added it to her collection of shopping bags. Checked her watch. "I'll run out of time." She trotted as quickly as she could while messaging Alex.

"@Gamerboy: I'll be there in 20 minutes. You're a darling!" She paused briefly to withdraw a thick wad of actual physical cash from a bank. It was a 10 minute walk to the cybercafé, but Pia had to stop and buy an umbrella, because a rain soaked look was unacceptable in the current mission profile.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 23: Mission Improbable

The sliding doors whooshed open as Pia exited from Westfield into the rainy Sydney afternoon, her new umbrella popping up with a satisfying snap. Traffic hissed by on wet asphalt. Her phone buzzed again:

“@Cherry Blossom Girl: <emoji: face holding back tears> can’t believe I get to help a real spy. see you soon boss lady!!”

The wad of banknotes felt solid and reassuring in her trouser pocket. Umbrella bobbing jauntily, she hurried along George Street. The mall faded behind her, the high rises crowding closer, Sydney Tower’s reviled silhouette vanishing into the low clouds. She stopped to take a selfie.

The little cybercafé came into view: a narrow neon-lit doorway with dark, game poster windows on either side, its sign blinking erratically. Warm light spilt onto the pavement, along with the sounds of clicking keyboards, muted trash talk, and the unmistakable chime of a retro fighting game’s victory screen. Victor’s phone beeped again.

“Calendar update: Compliance Training added , tomorrow 2pm.” He groaned aloud. “Oh for… Pia!”

But when his phone buzzed a second time, her umbrella selfie, grinning under raindrops, eyes shining, he found himself laughing despite everything. “@Pia: You’re trouble,” he texted back, thumbs tapping fondly. “Best kind.”

Pia entered GeekStar, leaving her umbrella to drip by the door. She looked around. Whoever was supposed to be on the desk had vanished, probably for a cheeky smoko. That saved one bribe, anyway. There were only a few clients, game nerds buried deep in cyberspace with headphones on and their monitors capturing all their attention. One of them was playing on the computer she had used yesterday. She tapped him on the shoulder.

The guy jumped a little, spinning around in his chair with wide, startled eyes. He was maybe early twenties, wiry and pale, sporting a black hoodie with some indecipherable metal band logo. Over-ear headphones hung loosely around his neck. A half-empty tin of Red Bull sweated beside the keyboard.

“Uh, yeah?” He blinked up at her, taking in her chic outfit, the fistful of luxury shopping bags, like an angel who had descended from retail heaven. Behind him, the game, something fast-paced and sci-fi, full of laser fire and mech suits, was paused on the screen. “That’s… my friend’s save,” he added uncertainly, glancing at the monitor, then at her again. “I just logged in, it was already running. Didn’t mess with it, I swear.”

Alex bounded over from across the room, breathless, and clutching a zippered toolkit like a treasure chest. “You made it!” he called, weaving between rows of glowing monitors. “I brought everything! What’s the mission?!”

The hoodie guy looked between Pia and Alex, clearly confused. “Wait. Are you… is this like… a hackathon or something?”

Outside, the rain was drumming steadily, smearing neon light across the wet glass. Somewhere nearby, a printer whirred to life, spitting out someone’s high-score certificate. And on Victor’s phone, another calendar notification blinked into view: “IT Security interview: Tomorrow 3:30pm.” Victor pressed his forehead to his desk with a groan. “Oh my God, she’s going to get me fired.”

"Hi Alex. Thanks for coming. I just need to. Access this computer.” She laid a possessive hand on the casing. “Do you like hamburgers?" she asked the laser game guy. He nodded. "Here's some money. Go and have the best hamburger ever. Two of them. Somewhere else than here. And shut down the computer before you leave. That's important."

The gamer stared down at the crisp $50 bill in his hand like he’d never seen money before. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Uh, okay?” he said faintly, blinking up at Pia like she’d just handed him a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s. “Yeah. Totally. Best burger ever. Got it.” He glanced once at Alex, who was watching with wide-eyed admiration, then at the screen, then back at Pia. “I didn’t see anything,” he added solemnly, as if they were now co-conspirators in a secret mission. He logged out, shut the machine down properly, grabbed his Red Bull and hoodie, and bolted out into the rain, leaving only the faint scent of stale deodorant and energy drink in his wake.

Alex whistled low under his breath. “Dude. You’re like… James Bond’s scary hot girlfriend,” he said admiringly, setting his toolkit down beside the now-vacant computer. “Okay boss, what are we doing? Cracking a firewall? Building a keylogger? Launching a worm? Do I need gloves?” He started to deploy the tool kit with enthusiasm, little screwdrivers and bludgers lined up neatly in rows on the table, like ranks of soldiers ready for battle.

Across the room, another patron looked up from his MMORPG raid, eyebrows raised faintly at the scene unfolding. Outside, the rain kept coming, steady and relentless, the city’s hum softened by the downpour. Over in the Central Business District, Victor leaned back in his chair, staring at his inbox with the grim resignation of a man preparing for a firing squad. “Nah,” he said aloud, smiling despite himself. “I hope she’s worth it.”

Pia sighed with relief. Now the computer was powered down, whatever rogue process she had stupidly left running yesterday must have ceased sending emails through Vic's office server. But if any corporate security team managed to follow a trail back to this café, there must be no evidence to be found.

"Gloves actually might be a good idea, Alex." Pia knew for sure her prints were on file with a dozen police forces, though not the New South Wales crew so far. She also knew that her status as a former Interpol agent would protect her from this kind of minor shenanigans. "I want you to take out the hard drive for me."

Alex’s eyes went huge. “Whoa.” He practically reverently pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves from his kit and snapped them on, flexing his fingers like a surgeon preparing for an intense operation.

“Lady, you’re literally the coolest person I’ve ever met,” he said, grinning so wide it looked like it might split his face. “Okay, okay, no problem, I’ve done this before! Mostly for friends who spilled Coke in their gaming rigs but, same principles!” He pulled the power cord and knelt beside the tower, popping open the side panel with practiced flicks of a tool. As he worked, he glanced up at her, his expression a mix of excitement and awe. “So, like, are you in witness protection? Or is this an Ocean’s Eleven kinda thing?”

A faint crack of thunder rumbled outside. The low hum of the café’s ceiling fans mingled with the clatter of keyboards, but no one seemed to be paying much attention. It was just another weird day at the geek den. Alex gently unplugged the SATA cables, lifted the hard drive out like it was made of glass, and held it aloft in both gloved hands. “Behold.” He passed it carefully to Pia, lowering his voice. “Do I want to know what’s on this?”

Across town, Victor slumped deeper in his chair as another email popped up, this one ominously titled: “URGENT: IT Security Audit, mandatory attendance.” He stared at it for a moment. Then laughed, softly, helplessly. “She’s absolutely gonna get me fired,” he muttered affectionately. He checked his phone, hoping for another message from her.

"No-one wants to know what’s on that drive, Alex. One more thing I have to do, then we're going to vanish." Pia checked for the hard-wired security cameras, followed their cables to a recorder behind the briefly un-staffed counter. It had a microSD card to store the footage. She popped it out and swallowed it with a grimace.

"Good. Let's go somewhere for a coffee. I need to rest and send some messages. You pick the venue."

Alex’s eyes widened as he watched Pia deftly remove the SD card from the recorder and, without hesitation, swallow it. “Whoa,” he murmured, clearly impressed. “That was… intense.”

Pia turned to him with a slight smile. “Leave No Trace. Now, about that coffee?”

Alex nodded eagerly. “Absolutely! I know a place not too far from here, The Tea Cosy in The Rocks. It’s cozy, has great scones, and the tea is top-notch. They give you your own strainer. It's got that olde-worlde charm.” Pia considered the suggestion, appreciating the idea of a quaint and quiet English Tea Shoppe in which to unwind. “Sounds perfect. Lead the way.”

As they stepped out into the rain, Pia opened her umbrella, shielding them both. They made an odd couple; a dashing, tall fashionista with an armful of expensive shopping, and a grubby jeans-clad nerd toting a laptop rucksack studded with anime symbols. The city’s hustle and bustle seemed to fade as they walked, the rhythmic patter of rain on the umbrella creating a soothing backdrop.

Meanwhile, across town, Victor sat at his desk, staring at yet another calendar notification: “IT Security Audit – Mandatory Attendance.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Pia, what have you got me into?” But despite the impending meetings and the mounting emails, he couldn’t help but smile, his anticipation building for dinner later.

"I have to say I didn't see you as a tea and scones kind of boy, Alex, more like Red Bull and Cheetos. A good afternoon tea will set me up nicely, though. Unfortunately I missed lunch."

The Tea Cosy was in a Victorian building with sash windows, with antique plates mounted on the walls, and shelving units full of old books and pieces of pottery. The teapots all had individual hand-knitted cosies. There was a real vibe, reminding Pia of eccentric family run cafés in the UK and Japan. They ordered cream teas, and she finally began to wind down.

"I owe you an explanation, Alex," she smiled, and patted his hand. "By the way, call me Viola.” She pronounced it the French-Italian way, like the musical instrument, not the flower. “All this trouble was part of a somewhat dodgy attempt to find a new boyfriend. Which I think worked, but I may have lost him again already. I suppose I’ll find out tonight. I regret dragging you into it, but I didn't know anyone else who could help. Anyway, here's a thank you present." She handed him the limited edition Elden Rings figurine.

Alex blinked, momentarily stunned as he cradled the Ranni the Witch box in his hands. The delicate craftsmanship, the ethereal blue hues, the intricate details, it was a collector's dream.

“Viola…” he whispered, eyes wide. “This is… this is incredible.” He looked up, a mix of awe and gratitude on his face. “Thank you. I mean it. This is going straight to the top shelf, center stage.”

The Tea Cosy’s cozy ambiance enveloped them, the scent of freshly baked scones mingling with the rich aroma of steeping tea. The clink of porcelain and the soft murmur of conversations created a soothing backdrop. Alex took a sip of his tea, then leaned in slightly. “So, this whole thing was for a dude? He must be some kind of a guy.”

Pia nodded, a little smile on her lips. “He’s different. He listens. He doesn’t judge.”

Alex grinned. “Well, if he’s smart, he’ll realize he’s hit the jackpot.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the heat of the tea and the taste of the scones providing a respite from the chaos of the afternoon. Meanwhile, across town, Victor stared at his calendar, now stacked with meetings titled “URGENT: IT Security Audit,” “Legal Review,” "HR Contact" and “Compliance Training.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Pia, what have you got me into?” he muttered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He picked up his phone, typing a message: “@Pia: Looking forward to dinner tonight. I have a feeling there’s a story behind all this.” He hit send, then leaned back in his chair, his anticipation building for the evening ahead.

Pia took note that Alex spread the clotted cream on his scone before the jam, and silently commended him. She had a high regard for the wild beauty of Cornwall and the free spirits of the Cornish, but there were limits.

"I tried to get the game for you, but they said it's not out for a month or so. How much is it anyway?"

Alex, still beaming from the earlier gift, took another bite of his scone, the clotted cream and jam perfectly balanced. “You know, Viola,” he said, “the standard edition of Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree DLC is priced at $79.99 USD. There's also a Premium Bundle available for $109.99, which includes a digital artbook and the original soundtrack.” He paused, then added with a grin, “But honestly, the figurine you gave me is more than enough. I can handle the game purchase myself.”

The ambiance of The Tea Cosy, with its warm lighting, and the soft clatter of teacups, provided a perfect backdrop for their conversation. Outside, the rain continued to fall, a soothing rhythm against the windows.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 24: Apology Dinner

Pia gave Alex the money for the deluxe version of his game anyway, since she liked his eager to please attitude. And he had got her out of a big jam, pretty much just because he was kind and helpful, if rather naive and easily manipulated. Someone she should keep an eye on and nurture in the future. A kind of kid brother. They finished their tea. It was mid-afternoon. There was quite a storm rolling around outside. Pia would have preferred to wait it out in the café, but she still had to sort things out with Vic. She paid the bill and waved Alex goodbye, with a promise to keep in touch. Then she messaged Vic.

"@Bae: Vic, I did do a bad thing, but I've totally fixed it up now. I'll explain everything at dinner. Where would you like to go? My treat, of course. Choose anywhere."

Victor’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, lighting up beside an abandoned sandwich. He’d been staring out at the churning grey sea from his apartment window, barefoot, wearing a hoodie thrown over a rumpled tee. The storm outside felt like it had crawled inside him too, restless, electric, unsettled.

When he saw Pia’s name pop up, his chest tightened. The message was so… Pia. Straight to the point, cheeky, a confession wrapped in a bribe. He thumbed a reply, hesitating only a second before pressing send:

“@Pia: Somewhere cosy. Italian? Or you choose. I don’t care where, just wanna see you. Can I pick you up?” He stared at the screen after sending it, wondering if he was being too eager. He set his phone down, grabbed his keys. Wherever she wanted, he’d be there. The storm cracked again outside, thunder rolling down the coastline.

"@Bae, I've booked a place called Alberto's Lounge. The reviews are good. Here's a map pin. Our table is from 19:00, if that's okay. I'm going home to change. You can park near my flat. We'll walk to the restaurant. It's only 10 minutes. Bring an umbrella in case the storm is still going. Dress code is smart casual. Ciao!"

Victor grinned down at the string of messages, her efficiency both adorable and slightly intimidating. Alberto’s Lounge… classy choice, Reese. He texted back: “@Pia: Perfect. Thanks for organising it. I’ll meet you outside your place at 18:45. Looking forward to it <emoji: smiley face>” He leant against the counter, his heart doing that funny lift again. She’d called him Vic in the earlier message. Not Victor. Just Vic. Intimate. Familiar.

He loped to his bedroom, opening his wardrobe with a frown. Smart casual? He ran his thumb over a shirt, then pulled out a crisp white one, holding it up against a pair of dark chinos. Yeah, that’d work. Maybe the navy blazer too. She deserved his best tonight. As he laid everything out, he thought about her message again. “I did do a bad thing.” He couldn’t tell if he was more curious or worried. Either way, he would let her explain it in her own time. He checked the weather app. Light rain lingering until near midnight. No problem. He grabbed an umbrella Emma had left behind, briefly wondering if Pia would find that ironic. By 18:40, he was outside Pia’s building, his hair still a little damp from the dash to the car, heart beating harder than it should for a simple dinner date. He leaned forward on the steering wheel, scanning the entrance.

*Is she gonna walk out looking like a movie star?*

Pia came out wearing a short black leather kilt over high denier black tights, a cream cashmere polo neck, and black Jimmy Choo combat boots featuring a cute white stripe on the ankle cuff. They looked surprisingly old and worn. Perhaps they held some special memories. Her face was made up beautifully. Her jewellery comprised long dangly, gold chain earrings, and a set of thin gold bangles on her right wrist, balancing the gold Hamilton American Classic Boulton watch on her left. A broad gold and silver filigree ring on her right forefinger. A neat black clutch purse slung from her shoulder by a thin metal chain. She had a navy blue blazer over her arm and was holding a pop-up umbrella with a canopy like the camouflage on a world war one dazzle ship.

Victor’s breath caught as she stepped into view, framed by the glow of the lobby lights behind her. Christ, Reese. His first thought was that she looked like she belonged on the cover of some edgy European fashion mag, effortlessly cool, a touch dangerous, every detail deliberate without trying too hard. He got out of the car, umbrella raised as he crossed to her, the drizzle fine but steady. His eyes travelled appreciatively from the battered boots to the glint of gold at her wrist.

“Hey, gorgeous.” His voice was warm, low, a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth.

"Hello, Vic." She collapsed her umbrella and stood up tall, as if hoping for a kiss.

And when she stood there, rising onto the balls of her feet just slightly, waiting, he didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek, close to the corner of her lips, letting his stubble graze her skin. “You look… incredible.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her smiling eyes, umbrella angled protectively over them both. His free hand brushed a stray hair from her temple, fingers light. “I hope that bad thing you did wasn’t buying me a motorbike. I’d never survive it.” He tilted the umbrella to coax her under his arm for the walk. “Ready, Pia?”

Pia looked happier now and linked arms eagerly. "I might have to buy you a motorbike to say sorry, Vic. Are things very bad at work? How much trouble did I get you into? I think I can get you out again. I hope."

Victor chuckled, his arm tightening gently around hers as they set off down the street, their footsteps muffled by the wet pavement. He glanced sideways at her, his lips quirking.

“Oh, that bad, huh?” he teased, but there was a warmth beneath it, relief, even, seeing her in such good spirits. “Work’s… well, let’s just say you caused a few raised eyebrows. Nothing I couldn’t talk my way out of. So far…” He nudged her lightly with his elbow. “But I wouldn’t say no to the motorbike. Preferably one that doesn’t look like it’s been stolen.” He grinned, then his tone softened, curiosity threading through. “Seriously though, Pia. You okay? You seemed pretty shaken earlier. I don’t care about the trouble, I just wanna know you’re alright.”

The restaurant’s neon sign glowed faintly ahead, the warm scent of garlic and herbs already drifting onto the street despite the rain. He slowed a little, wanting those few extra moments before they had to step inside. Pia slowed in sync.

"I'm fine, Vic. Really fine, not British fine, which means the opposite." The clouds spat a last few fat drops. "It was a silly adventure I could have avoided if I had more sense."

The fresh smell of the air, washed of all dust and fumes, the petrichor, opened Vic’s senses. Pia wasn’t wearing her usual Erolfa fragrance this evening. It was a deeper scent, Creed Sublime Vanille, calculated to enhance her erotic powers. Victor breathed in the cleansed air, his senses sharpening with it, alongside a subtle, unfamiliar warmth that clung to Pia’s skin. His brows lifted faintly as he caught it, something rich and sweet lingering beneath the crisp rain. Some different perfume tonight… A smile ghosted across his lips. She’d chosen something deeper, more… enticing.

The door of Alberto's Lounge opened, the maitre d’ welcomed the young couple, and showed them to an intimate booth. He let her step ahead as they entered, watching the way the chain of her purse swung, the way her boots empowered each confident stride. The glow of the restaurant wrapped around them, candlelight flickering in Murano glass, quiet laughter from nearby tables, an old jazz track humming softly overhead.

Sliding into the booth opposite her, Victor let his knees brush hers under the table, deliberately close but not crowding. He shrugged off his blazer, folding it neatly beside him, then rolled up his sleeves a couple of turns. He smiled across the table, the soft glow catching the light stubble on his jaw. “For a silly adventure,” he murmured, “You’ve cleaned up pretty spectacularly, Ms Reese.”

A waiter offered water, and the wine and food menus. Victor leaned forward slightly, elbows resting loosely on the table. “You pick. I trust you.” His gaze flicked over her makeup, the subtle shimmer of her eyelids. “If you’re trying to butter me up so I don’t ask too many questions,” he grinned playfully, “It’s kind of working.” He nudged the wine menu toward her. “Tell me the story. I promise not to call in backup.”

Pia ordered two Negronis and a bottle of Barolo. "I assume you'll want to eat something meaty, Vic. I'll drink red with nearly anything." They began to read their menus, and Pia simultaneously started to explain what had happened.

"After that time at the beach, when I told you the worst thing I have ever done. You were, well, Vic. You made me feel... Let's just say I slept free of nightmares for the first time in months. I decided I wanted to get you for my boyfriend, but I came to realise neither of us had given the other any clue about our surnames, our addresses, or our phone numbers. So I worked out a plan to track you down."

Victor’s brow arched, a slow, amused smile unfurling across his face as Pia spoke. He watched her over the top of the menu, his fingers absently tracing the condensation on his water glass.

“Ah,” he said, drawing the syllable out with a conspiratorial grin. “So this is the part where I find out you’re secretly MI6, is it?” He picked up the wine list, scanning it thoughtfully. “Barolo’s perfect. And yeah, something meaty sounds exactly right.” He flicked a glance at the menu, then back at her. “Go on. Tell me the rest of this master plan of yours.”

"I had two ideas,” Pia said. “And I chose the bad one. I should just have looked you up on LinkedIn and slid into your DMs. But I would have had to make an account, and I’ve got a thing against social media.” She grinned wryly at her foolishness. “Obviously my plan went wrong in unexpected ways and you’re still being splattered with the fallout. I'm afraid one of my many faults is sudden enthusiasms for complicated, possibly unwise schemes."

The cocktails arrived, deep ruby in colour and nearly frozen. Pia took a very long sip before she continued. "Are you ready to order, Vic?"

Victor watched her sip, eyes lingering on the faint lipstick imprint her lips left on the glass. He felt his grin widen at her confession. A quiet chuckle slipped out as he shook his head.

“Naturally you picked the most chaotic route possible.” He lifted his own Negroni, swirling the ice with a slow wrist roll, then raised it in a half-toast. “To complicated, unwise schemes. And the women brave enough to pull them off.” He took a sip of the sharp, bitter, cold, perfect, cocktail, then set the glass down with a satisfying clink. “And hey… don’t knock the bad plan. I kinda love that you’re a tech-whiz-slash-sneaky-genius under that chic exterior.” His gaze softened, admiring. “I mean you could have just emailed the info@ email address where I work. Though if you’d just asked for a date, you’d have had half the department forwarding it around in about five minutes. Probably with added memes.”

He slid his menu toward the edge of the table, decisively. “Yeah, I’m ready. I’ll have the osso buco. And let’s get some of these truffle fries to share, yeah?” He leaned back, studying her over his glass again. “Your turn. What’s Pia Reese having? And… how much did you already know about me before we had our first proper conversation?” His smile curved into a playful dare. “Come on, detective. How deep did the rabbit hole go?”

“All I knew was that your friend Dan was funny and kind. If you want to know someone, look at their friends. I saw he was married because of the ring, and he obviously thought I was attractive but he didn’t try to hit on me, he pointed me towards you. And you treated me properly. You and Dan both treated me with consideration and respect. A little respect for women can get you very far, Vic.”

Vic listened quietly. It was true about Dan. His best friend since school. A through and through good mate. Something of a larrikin but mainly the best parts. Or Kiri would never have married him.

The waiter came and took their order. Pia asked for a tricolore salad, an Escalope Holstein with spaghetti and tomato ragu, and creamed spinach. "I'm sorry for being such a pig, but I've hardly eaten all day except for a cream tea."

The wine waiter brought the Barolo, went through the ceremony of presenting the bottle to Vic, opening it and pouring a small measure for him to taste. Pia flexed an eyebrow and muttered something in Japanese. Victor’s brows lifted as he caught the quick foreign murmur, his grin sharpening with curiosity. “Was that a spell, or are you cursing me under your breath?” he teased gently, swirling the Barolo in his glass before raising it to his nose. He took a thoughtful sniff, then a small sip, letting it bloom on his tongue. “Mm. Good pick.” He nodded approvingly to the wine waiter, who poured for Pia, then Vic, before retreating.

Vic leant forward again, resting his forearms on the table, his voice dropping just a touch as the candlelight flickered between them. “You’re not a pig, Pia. You’re a woman with excellent taste and a healthy appetite. I’m honoured to witness it.” His smile turned warmer, more sincere. “Besides, if I had only had a cream tea today, I’d be starving too.”

He tilted his head, his gaze playfully narrowing. “Okay… you’re definitely hiding something with that little foreign mutter. Come on. Translation, please.” He raised his glass again, letting the question hover between them, waiting for her answer with a relaxed, slightly rakish look he wore when he was both charmed and intrigued.

"I just said 'sexist' because he assumed you were in charge, being the man. But I didn't want to annoy him in case he spat in my pasta. Do you know there are still restaurants where the women are given a menu with no prices? I'd actually rather like to be treated at one of them. No pressure."

Pia finished her Negroni, drank some water, and sipped the rich red wine.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 25: Cybercrimes and Other Misdemeanours

“Anyway, I went to a cybercafé and started doing some crafty work. Basically I made a little database of all the financial companies in Sydney and wrote some programs to search for you. I don’t know how to code, beyond the basics, so I used ChatGPT to do it for me. Vibe coding. But a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I didn't really know what the thing was doing, just that it seemed to get me the result I wanted. And then -- schoolgirl mistake -- I forgot to shut down the process when I left. So it was pinging away at random since yesterday afternoon. I stopped it though."

Victor nearly choked on his wine, coughing into his napkin as laughter bubbled out. “Oh my God, Pia…” He set the glass down, shaking his head with delighted disbelief. “You email-bombed half the financial district just to find me? That’s, wildly illegal and kind of amazing.” He leaned back, his grin widening. “I swear, every time I think I’ve got a read on you, you come out with something like this.” His eyes sparkled with affection and mild awe. “I mean, you’re sitting here looking like the classiest woman in Sydney, and meanwhile you’ve accidentally launched a cyber-espionage operation.”

He gave a low chuckle, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “So just to be clear. If some IT security guy kicks down my door tomorrow, I can say this wasn’t my fault, right?” He laughed again, then softened, his gaze steady on her. “I’m honestly touched, Pia. I thought you just casually found me. But you really wanted to find me.”He nudged her foot lightly under the table. “No wonder you didn’t need my surname. You’re scary.” His grin softened into something more tender. “Scary in a totally irresistible way.” He tilted his head, amused again. “And hey, if you wanna go somewhere with no prices on the menu, I’m game.”

Pia started to eat her tricolore salad. She pinched one of Vic’s chips.

"It’s not all that very illegal, surely? More like a minor technical oversight. I actually got your surname from Jules. Then I should have looked you up on LinkedIn, but as I said…” she trailed off, unable to explain her train of thought. “Well. We have to deal the cards we bought… No, that’s not quite right, is it?” She frowned as she tried to formulate the correct metaphor.

“Fuccit. I set the thing going and forgot about it. When the gak hit the fan and you called me this morning, I realised my error and set about fixing it. I'd met this gamer geek guy at the café yesterday. He practically worshipped me because of my Studio Ghibli bling, so I contacted him for help. He thought I was like a Bond Girl on a mission.” She pinched another chip.

“I told him there are two types of Bond Girls; the ones who Bond feths and then they get killed, and the ones who kill everyone and then feth Bond. And I'm the second type.” She smiled. “I didn't really tell him that, because it would have frightened him.” She paused, then admitted with a cheeky grin, “Actually I didn't even think of saying it until now. But it's still funny."

Victor laughed aloud, leaning back in his seat, absolutely enchanted. “Oh my God, Pia Reese.” He shook his head with a grin, watching her steal his chips like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re definitely the second kind. No question.”

He picked up another fry, twirling it between his fingers thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’d pay good money to see that poor guy’s face if you had told him that. He’d probably short-circuit on the spot.” He dabbed the fry with a little aioli, popping it into his mouth.

“Studio Ghibli bling, huh?” His eyes crinkled fondly. “You’ve got secret fandom layers I’ve hardly begun to uncover, haven’t you? I’m starting to think tracking you down would’ve been way harder than whatever you pulled to find me.”

He leaned forward again, dropping his voice playfully. “So, did your little cyber sidekick help cover your tracks? Or am I about to get fired because my email still has ‘I Heart Ponyo’ in the sig file?” He flicked a glance at her wrist, the gold bangles glinting as she lifted her wine glass. “Also… you’re lucky I’m weak for girls in combat boots stealing my fries. Because I should be way more cross about the illegal database thing.” His grin deepened, lazy and admiring. “But you? I’m just impressed.”

"The fries were to share. I'm just pretending to steal them because that's what girlfriends have to do. It's our culture.” Pia stole another one and finished her salad. "More wine?”

Victor laughed again, soft and delighted, leaning his cheek briefly against his hand as he watched her. “Your culture, huh?” he echoed warmly. “Well, then I guess it’s also tradition for boyfriends to pretend to be angry but secretly love it.” He slid the wine bottle closer, and poured for her with a steady hand, topping up his own glass after. The deep garnet liquid caught the candlelight between them.

“More wine,” he confirmed, his tone light but threaded with underlying affection. He held up his glass in a small toast. “To girlfriends who steal fries, and formulate complicated, unwise schemes that somehow work out.”
He sipped, savouring the flavour, then tilted his head with a playful glint in his eyes. “Also, just for the record, are you pretending to be my girlfriend? Or making it official?” His smile curved slow and teasing. “Because I’d really hate to get my cultural protocols wrong.” He popped another fry into his mouth, utterly relaxed, completely charmed. “And yeah, you’re not paying for dinner. Not tonight.”

"You should wait until the end of the story to decide if you want me for a girlfriend, Vic. And I am paying for dinner because I invited you. Now, where was I?" Pia paused and thought through the narrative again. It was such a fantastic tale, Vic might almost wonder if she had made it all up. Except that the barrage of emails from HR, Compliance, and IT was very real.

“I went down to the cybercafé. There was a guy there playing on the same computer I had used the day before. I gave him $50 to go away and eat a hamburger. He shot off like a... A starving wolf. Then my geek accomplice arrived with a set of tools. I had him take the computer apart and remove the hard drive. Here it is."

Boom. Just like that, Pia slipped the drive unit out of her natty clutch purse. She put it on the table and pushed it towards Vic with a guilty smile. It sat there like a dodgy ingot of recast stolen silver, reflecting a flicker of candle light from its metal case.

"All the evidence of my mistake, well, actually they've already got the messages it sent. I mean the database I made, the scripts and so on. It's all in there. A load of other stuff too. Game saves and things. Nothing deleted. You can take it to your IT people and they'll be able to confirm it wasn't you who did the bad thing, it was... Someone else. And they’ll see I didn't download any of their data. Take it and use it, Vic. I won't let you come to harm because of my mistake. I'll confess to them personally if I have to."

Victor stared at the hard drive on the table, the metal casing twinkling in the candlelight, starkly incongruous among the formal layout of cutlery, plates and glasses.

His lips parted, but no words came immediately. Instead, he looked up at Pia, really looked, taking in the wobbly smile beneath the bravado, the faint tremor in her fingers, the way her posture stayed tall despite the weight of guilt she was clearly carrying. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he reached out, not for the hard drive, but for her hand across the table. His palm was warm, steady, fingers curling gently around hers.

“Jesus, Pia.” His voice was quiet, reverent almost, and threaded with affection and disbelief. “You really are the second kind of Bond girl, aren’t you?” He gave a soft, crooked smile. “You raided a cybercafé to save me.”

He glanced at the hard drive again, then back to her. “I believe you. I’d have believed you even without this.” He squeezed her hand gently. “I’m not gonna let anyone throw me under a bus. I can handle it, with the hard drive.” His thumb traced over her knuckles, lingering. “But you’re not confessing anything to anyone tonight. You’ve done more than enough. You’re brave as hell, you know that?”

He let go, finally picking up the hard drive, weighing it in his palm thoughtfully. “Okay. I’ll take this. We’ll figure it out. And in the meantime,” he flashed a small grin, sliding it into his blazer pocket like it was nothing more than a set of keys, “You’re definitely not paying for dinner, because you just saved my ass. That’s my culture.” He leaned back, taking another sip of wine, his gaze warm and steady across the table. “Now finish your pasta, Pia. I’m not letting my favourite Bond girl go hungry after a mission like that.”

Pia obeyed, tearing into her Escalope Holstein and spaghetti with quite the appetite. She drank more wine, and Vic saw that her face was somewhat flushed.

"This is very good,” she smiled. “I want to come here again. So, the end of the adventure was this. I got the hard drive and I destroyed the CCTV evidence. Well, not destroyed exactly, I’ve got it with me. But I'll get rid of it tomorrow.” She looked a bit sour, thinking about that process, but she brightened up when she got to the next part of the story.

“We went to a tea shop which was very nice and had proper cream teas, with real clotted cream. I was a bit worried because the photos in the menu showed the jam on first, which is a crime against gastronomy. But actually the scones were excellent. I gave my geek pal an anime figure as a thank you. Not one of the pervy ones. It was a little witch or some character from the game he wanted. Limited edition merch. He was made up. I also gave him the money for the game. Elder Ringpiece Saga. Then we parted company. It was already stormy by the time I left."

Pia watched Vic from the corner of her eye, hoping her total confession had been accepted.

Victor watched her with a slow, spreading smile as she tucked into her food. There was something about the way she tore into the escalope with gusto, unapologetic, full of life, flushed from the wine and the heat and the sheer absurdity of her story, that made his chest ache in the best way.

“Elden Ring,” he corrected softly, with a smile. “But I like your version better.” He sipped his wine, letting the warmth settle through him as he listened. “A tea shop after a covert op. Very classy. Very British.” His lips quirked, playful. “And I love that you bribed the kid with limited edition merch. You’re honestly… you’re something else, Pia.” He sat back, letting the hum of the restaurant wash over them for a moment, the clink of cutlery, the low jazz drifting lazily from the concealed speakers. Then he met her gaze fully, his eyes gentle but shining.

“I accept your confession,” he said quietly, sincerely. “Every wild, beautiful bit of it.” He leaned forward again, his elbows on the table, his smile curling into something soft and intimate. “You didn’t need to do any of it, you know. But you did. For me.” He reached across again, brushing his fingers lightly over hers where they rested by her plate. “You’ve got a ridiculous, brilliant, fearless heart. And honestly? I don’t care how messy or complicated things get, Pia. You’ve got me.”

He squeezed her hand gently, his grin returning. “Just, next time? Maybe call me first before you launch another cyber-heist, yeah?” He raised his glass again, holding it toward her. “To the best girlfriend I never saw coming.”

Pia beamed at Vic's warm words, and raised her own glass.

"I'm not in the cyber-heist business any more. Just one last thing I have to do, and that really is the end of the mission. So, am I off the hook for a motorbike or should we wait until you get through the corporate crap tomorrow? You've probably got an awful lot of meetings to endure."

Victor clinked his glass gently against hers, the sound soft and satisfying. “You’re officially off the hook,” he said warmly, his grin lingering as he took a slow sip. “At least for the motorbike. For now.”

He set his glass down, gaze holding hers across the table, steady and fond. “Let’s see what tomorrow brings. You’re right, it’s gonna be a circus. HR, Compliance, IT, all of them wanting their pound of flesh.” He gave a resigned little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “But honestly, Pia? With that drive in my pocket and your story straight, I reckon I can navigate it. I’ve handled worse.”

He tilted his head, amused again. “And if anyone asks why a mysterious woman with combat boots and a Studio Ghibli handbag was emailing me under twelve different aliases… I’ll just say I’ve got interesting friends.” His smile softened. “And after that? I want to see you again. No more chaos. No missions. Just you.” He nudged her foot lightly under the table again, the playful glint back in his eye. “Though if you do end up buying a motorbike… call me first. I want to watch you ride it like an absolute menace down Oxford Street.”

The waiter returned with dessert menus, offering them gently. Victor glanced down, then back up at Pia, his expression turning quietly affectionate. “Dessert? Or should we just go for a walk in the clean air before the next storm hits?”

"Thank you for offering to pay, Vic. In Japan when you eat out, there's always a fight for the honour of paying the bill. I remember one time when my brother and his wife and I went out with Hikaru's aunt. Yancy sneaked the bill over to his side, and Mrs Takeda started to claim it was hers because she was the oldest. Yancy said no, I'm a man so I have precedence. Mrs Takeda said she had invited everyone. Yancy just said I've already got the bill, so I’ll pay. It went on like that until eventually Mrs Takeda got the bill and she was happy. Yancy managed to pay another time." She chuckled at the memory. "No pudding for me, thanks."

Victor’s face lit up at her story, his laughter warm and genuine. “God, I love that,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “That’s such a better ritual than just awkwardly splitting the bill or PayPalling each other.” He leaned back, sipping the last of his wine as he imagined the scene, a vivid little movie in his mind of Pia’s brother, his wife, and a determined Mrs Takeda battling it out with quiet, relentless politeness. “You’ve got such good stories, Pia,” he added with a smile.

“I dine out on them,” she smiled cheekily. “Excuse me for a minute, Vic.” She stood up and took her handbag, clearly headed for the powder room.

“Go freshen up, Pia. I’ll be here.” His gaze lingered a moment longer on the rear of her kilt, quietly admiring, before he turned his attention back to the dessert menu, flipping it idly but really just waiting for her return. Underneath it all, a small glow of happiness settled in his chest: this wasn’t just dinner, it was them, finding their rhythm, weaving their lives a little closer together with every story, every smile, every stolen fry.

Pia had to check her pad, which needed changing.

No sex tonight, she thought, Though actually we've not had a proper kiss yet, so I'm getting ahead of myself. I can at least make up for that.

She reviewed her face, renewed her lipstick, and spritzed a little Sublime Vanille from a tiny travel atomiser. Then she told the mirror. "Vic is such a great guy and he's really into me and he's gentle. A slow mover. I kind of like that. It feels a lot safer than Kevin. I hope he's a fething tiger when he gets going, though."

Victor was swirling the last of the Barolo in his glass when Pia returned, the candlelight catching the new gloss of her lips, the subtle shimmer on her cheekbones, and that quiet but unmistakable waft of vanilla warmth that reached him before she even sat down. He looked up from the menu, a slow smile blooming across his face as his gaze took her in, freshened, radiant, somehow softer and sharper at once. He didn’t stand, but his body leaned instinctively forward, as if drawn closer by her magnetism.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmured, voice low and intimate now, not for the restaurant but for her alone. “Everything okay?” His eyes flicked warmly over hers, then down to her lips, then back again.

And maybe it was the wine, or the glow of the restaurant, or just her, but something in him relaxed, settled deeper. He reached his hand across the table, palm open, inviting. “Come sit next to me instead of across. No rule says you’ve gotta be over there.” A playful little glint lit his eye, but underneath it was something steady, solid, wanting her closer. “C’mere, Pia.”

Pia shuffled round the banquette until she was within Vic's easy reach. She leant her head on his shoulder. "Vic, are you okay to drive home tonight? Because we've had a fair bit to drink. Two cocktails and a bottle of wine. I mean, you can stay over if you like, just, um…” she whispered, “I've still got the painters in."

Victor wrapped an arm around her as she settled against him, his palm warm and reassuring on her upper arm, fingertips lightly stroking the soft cashmere of her jumper. He turned his head slightly, resting his cheek against her temple, smiling at how perfectly she fit there. Her whispered words made him chuckle softly, his breath warm against her hair. “The painters are in, huh?” he murmured, amused and touched by her gentle honesty. “Thanks for telling me, Pia. I’m happy just being here with you.”

He pressed a light kiss to her temple, chaste but affectionate, lingering just a moment. “And no, I probably shouldn’t drive. You’re right. Think I’d better take you up on that offer to stay over.”

He leaned back a little so he could look down at her, his grin lazy and fond. “We’ll curl up, watch something stupid on TV, and I’ll make you brekkie in the morning.” He lifted his glass again for a final sip, then set it down. “And next time, Pia Reese, next time, we’re both trouble-free.” His thumb traced a slow, absent circle on her arm. “Unless you’re planning another international incident I don’t know about yet.”

Pia relaxed in Vic's light hug for a minute.

"Let's go, Vic. It's not so late. We can listen to music for a while and I need to show you where everything is. Because I hope you're going to be staying over again some time."

Victor felt that warm glow in his chest bloom wider at her words, her easy way of saying I want you in my life without fanfare or drama. He pressed another quick, grateful kiss to her hair before easing them both upright.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his grin curling deeper. “Let’s go.”

He helped her into her jacket, his hands lingering at her shoulders a beat longer than necessary, then shrugged into his own blazer. They stepped out into the cool night. The storm had left the streets clean and gleaming under the city lights. He instinctively reached for her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. Their stride fell naturally in sync, and after a few paces, he tugged her gently closer, slipping his arm around her waist instead, tucking her under his side. Protective, steady, affectionate, but never crowding her space.

“You’re really serious about this, huh?” he teased lightly, though his voice held a quiet hopefulness. “You’re gonna get sick of me leaving socks everywhere.” He glanced down at her, smiling softly. “And for the record, Pia? I already feel at home with you.”

He squeezed her hip lightly, his thumb brushing slow circles through the leather waistband of her skirt as they walked. Not demanding, just a steady, grounding kind of touch, the way a man holds onto something he didn’t know he’d been looking for until he found it.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 26: Breakfast Banter

Pia's alarm chimed at 6 as usual, easily snapping her out of half-sleep because subconsciously she was expecting it. She tapped the snooze button in under a second, hoping Vic had not been disturbed. She slipped from the bed and went to drink some warm water to help get her bowels moving. Then to the bathroom, where a wide-mesh sieve enabled her to retrieve the SD card stolen from the GeekStar recorder unit. She had performed this unpleasant task several times during her undercover career. Eventually, after a very good wash, she had a palm full of secrets.

*I must view the footage before I erase it,* she decided. She left the incriminating object on the kitchen peninsula and began to cook breakfast.

Appetising smells of toast, coffee, and fried eggs were soon wafting around the flat. Pia opened the west-facing balcony doors to let in the fresh morning air. The sun was still low in the sky, but the forecast was fine, so she put all her laundry into the machine. She switched the wallscreen TV to a news channel. She was hoping the increased noise and activity would cause Vic to rouse himself before she had to throw cold water on him.

Pia's unit was a generously sized 2LDK on the first floor. It was double aspect, with bedroom windows and a Juliette balcony on the east, and wide French doors to a proper balcony on the west side, looking over the communal gardens. There were two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, and a large living-dining-kitchen space. The walls were recently painted in earth and warm neutral tones. The floors were polished wood with beautiful, intricately patterned Oriental rugs on them. All the furnishings and art were well-chosen, tasteful, comfortable, and vibed together delightfully. This was because Pia had hired an excellent local interior designer to do everything for her. She knew from sad experience that she was terrible at decorating.

Victor stirred at the scent of frying eggs, blinking at the soft morning light filtering around the bedroom curtains. His first thought was, *God, I could get used to this.* He stretched, feeling the slight warmth left on Pia’s side of the bed, then frowned at the sound of the TV already chattering in the background.

“6:45 Pia?” he mumbled into the pillow, rubbing his face. “You really can’t sleep in, huh…” He hauled himself up, running a hand through his mess of long blond hair. Barefoot, clad in only his boxers, he strolled out of the bedroom and into the living-dining space, pausing in the doorway to let the domestic scene unfold before him.

Pia, wearing a loose, plain white tee-shirt and black period panties, was bustling between the cooker, the sink and the peninsula. The coffee pot steamed beside the toaster. The washing machine hummed away in the half-bath utility room. The balcony doors were open to let in the crisp morning air.

Then Vic noticed it. A tiny SD card lying on the kitchen counter, next to Pia’s phone and a half-empty glass of water. He tilted his head, curiosity stirring his mind.

“Morning, babe,” he called, voice still scratchy with sleep. He crossed the room, kissed her on the temple, then gestured subtly toward the SD card. “You uh, doing some deep archival research this early, or is this one of those ex-cop things I’m better off not knowing?” He gave her a playful grin, but his eyes lingered on the object with unmistakable curiosity.

"Morning, Bae!” Pia beamed happily. “I know you slept well so I won't ask. That's the security footage from the cybercafé. I exfiltrated it yesterday and recovered it this morning. You don’t want to know how.” She tried to deflect Vic from the SD card and hustle him to the dining table.

“Breakfast is just about ready, Vic. You should eat now and shower afterwards. I've got a spare tie you can wear to the office. Looking smart is a power move."

Victor chuckled at her breezy command, running a hand down her back as he let himself be herded. “Ohhh, exfiltrated, huh? Damn, you’re cooler before seven a.m. than I am all day.”

He flopped into one of the dining chairs, letting his gaze linger admiringly on her as she plated up breakfast. “But hey, a tie for the office? Babe, you’re talking like I’m off to the executive boardroom. Every day is Dress Down Friday at my place. If I show up in a tie, they’ll think I’ve got a job interview.” Still, there was teasing affection in his voice as he reached for toast, and buttered it lazily.

“But seriously,” He leaned an elbow on the table, dropping his voice a notch. “That card, what’s on it? Do you need me to help wipe it? Or, like, pretend I didn’t see it?” His brows lifted a little, an attempt at playfulness, but under it there was a flicker of concern. He took a bite of egg on avocado toast, chewing thoughtfully, still watching her. “Or is this just some Pia Reese closure ritual I’ll find out about in two or three more chapters?” His smile was crooked, warm, but held an inquisitive spark. Victor Davern, charmingly difficult to fully distract.

“You probably don’t want to fiddle with the card given where it’s been,” Pia said. “It’s only going to show me and Alex’s crimes and misdemeanours from the last two days. Nothing important. I’ll wipe it, encrypt it, microwave it, snip it up with scissors, and put it in two separate bags of burnable rubbish. Now eat your breakfast.” She poured Vic coffee and shoved the toast rack at him.

Victor’s brows shot up at ‘given where it’s been,’ his fork hanging mid-air.

“Okay, ew,” he chuckled nervously. His mind leapt to the most secret hiding place a woman might use, and landed squarely on the wrong answer. He was used to the idea of putting himself inside women, not imagining them doing things with spare bits of hardware, not understanding that tampons, moon cups and the occasional toy were perfectly normal in female life.

He cleared his throat, grinning too wide. “Too much information. I’m officially not touching it. Thanks for that mental image at breakfast, babe. Put me off my food.”

“Good,” Pia said briskly. “That leaves more toast for me.” She buttered another slice.

“Crimes and misdemeanours, huh?” he echoed, eyeing her over the rim of his mug. “God, you make it sound like you and Alex are some modern-day Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid.” He smeared a thick layer of butter on his toast, then paused, a glint of mischief crossing his face. “Wait, am I the one who’s gonna end up tied to a chair while you two rob a bank? Or am I the getaway driver?”

He leaned forward, giving her a mock-conspiratorial grin. “Because if you’re planning to disappear into Bolivia, babe, I’m gonna need more than a new tie.” He glanced toward the bedroom. “Also, which tie? You’re dressing me now? This relationship’s getting dangerously domestic.” But he was already chewing obediently, sipping his coffee, loving the banter, and secretly, loving her fussing over him.

"Sometimes I like to wear a man's tie, Vic, so I've got a selection. Just pick one you like. You don't have to wear it, but a tie is a very good standby for a number of situations." Pia finished her fried egg and drank some more coffee. She had a beady eye fixed on the Marmite jar. "If you want to stay over again you should bring some clothes, Vic. I can't send my boyfriend off to work in a wrinkled shirt. Today's a special circumstance, obviously. That's why you need a good tie."

Victor grinned wide, his whole face lighting up as he buttered another piece of toast.

“Your boyfriend, huh?” he repeated, savoring the word like honey on his tongue. “God, I love the way that sounds.” He leaned back in his chair, balancing the mug on his knee, eyeing her fondly as she sipped her coffee and gave the Marmite the kind of look usually reserved for uncooperative suspects.

“I’ll take a tie, then,” he said easily. “Hell, I’ll take three, if you’ve got spares. I’m not gonna say no to free fashion advice from a hot ex-detective.” He flashed her a cheeky wink.

“And, yeah,” he added, his tone softening, “I’d like to stay over. Might bring a bag next time. Maybe even a toothbrush. And some non-wrinkled shirts.” He chuckled quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t have your neighbours thinking I’m some stray cat you let in.”

His gaze drifted to the SD card again, but he caught himself, deliberately shifting focus back to her. “You’ve got it handled, right?” he asked gently. “I mean, whatever’s on there?” He said it lightly, but his eyes didn’t smile like his mouth.

"It should just show me screwing around on the computer, then Alex taking it apart the next day and robbing out the hard drive for me. That's the evidence I want to get rid of." She smeared Marmite onto a slice of toast. "But now that I think about it, there might be something else on there. The cameras monitored the whole place. I mean, suppose I caught someone downloading kiddy porn. Or drug dealing. I'd have to take that to the police. So I'm going to check it later. The people who run these places never bother to review the footage unless there's a specific reason. Like someone stealing a drive out of one of the computers. It's actually really dull to watch video surveillance footage, you know."

Victor’s grin faded into something more thoughtful as he watched her carefully spread the Marmite, his eyebrows knitting just a little.

“Yeah. Boring until it’s not,” he murmured, voice low but not unsupportive. He drummed his fingers on the table, processing. “So, hang on,” He leant forward, resting his elbows beside his plate. “You’re telling me this SD card might’ve accidentally caught a serious crime while you were pulling off your own minor caper?”

He sat back, sipping his coffee again, blond lashes shadowing his thoughtful eyes. “Listen, if you end up spotting anything heavy on there,” he said gently. “I mean, I guess you’re right to check it. Just, don’t carry it all by yourself, yeah? Doesn’t have to be me, but, find someone.” Then he pointed his fork at her. “And no vigilante nonsense. Promise me.”

He grinned again, but it was edged with care. “I know you’re done being a detective. I’m just saying, I kinda like this version of you who makes great coffee and fusses over my ties instead of chasing criminals across rooftops.”

Pia gave Vic quite a hard stare. His line about running over rooftops recalled a case in Beirut, during which she had taken part in an actual rooftop chase and gun battle, and shot two perps dead, before escaping on a stolen motor scooter to the French embassy, her wounded partner barely hanging on behind, while his blood oozed into her white jeans.

Victor caught the stare and froze, his fork hovering midair. He wasn’t sure why, but something in her eyes, that look, made a cold thread of understanding coil in his chest. He set the fork down slowly, giving her his full attention.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his usual playful grin softening into something more grounded. “I didn’t mean anything bad. Just fooling around. I’m sorry.”

He reached across the table, curling his fingers lightly over hers. “And if you’ve got a past, babe… I haven’t noticed anything that makes me want to leave.” He squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “Except maybe that Marmite thing.” His grin crept back in, teasing now, trying to lift the mood. “That’s objectively criminal.” But beneath the banter, he held her gaze. Not pressing for the story behind her stare. Just being there.

"Marmite is the same as Vegemite, only better!" Pia said with deep conviction. She squeezed Vic's fingers, then relaxed her hold.

Victor’s grin widened, his eyes twinkling as he leaned back in his chair, dramatically putting a hand over his heart. “Better?” he gasped. “Babe, them’s fighting words. You say that in a pub, they’ll revoke your visa on the spot.” He laughed softly, letting her squeeze his fingers before she released him. He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully, nodding slowly. He paused, then grinned again. “I’m still impressed you’re checking CCTV like it’s just another Wednesday.”

Pia cocked and relaxed an eyebrow briefly. "It has to be done. It won't take all day. I couldn't forgive myself if there was evidence of a serious crime on the tapes and I wiped it like a fool. Like, someone selling a baggie of cannabis -- who cares? But what if I saw someone trading a Glock 9mm? You'd feel the same, Vic. Anyway, I'll do it this morning and go shopping in the afternoon."

She swiped the last of the Marmite onto another slice of toast.

"Do you want to meet up later, Vic? It's fine if not. I don't want to be all over you like a rash. There has to be some space in every relationship. I mean, if I need you, or you need me, then absolutely we should be there for each other. There's always going to be stuff we want to do together, and things we want to do apart."

She crunched her Marmitey toast with delight.

Victor watched her with quiet admiration, a soft smile tugging at his lips. As she bit into her Marmite toast with such obvious joy, he couldn’t help but laugh, a low, affectionate sound. “God, you’re adorable when you’re smug about disgusting things.” At her next words, though, he sobered a little, thoughtful again. He leant forward, elbows on the table, hands loosely clasped.

“Babe,” he said softly, “you’re not all over me like a rash.” His smile deepened. “You’re exactly the right amount of over me. I like waking up here. I like the idea of meeting up later. But, I like that you’re saying this, too.”

He tilted his head, playful glint returning. “We’re two very independent people, huh? It’s kinda sexy. Makes me wanna chase you a little.” He straightened up and finished his toast.

“I’d love to meet up later. Just text me when you’re done playing Mission Impossible.” He grinned. “Maybe dinner? Or we can just hang out here again.” A pause, then a teasing smirk. “And you gonna pick me a tie or what? I’m starting to think you’ve got a secret collection of ex-boyfriend souvenirs in there.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 27: Friendly Neighbours

Victor stood at the door of Unit 5, 10 Bloomfield Street eyeing Pia sceptically as she adjusted the knot on his emergency tie with precision. “I thought cool biz was a thing,” he said with a lopsided grin. “You sure I need this?”

“Vic, you’re going to be glad you’ve got it,” Pia replied crisply. “You’ll thank me when you’re stuck in a legal review and don’t look like you surfed straight into the office.” She gave him a quick wink, patted his shoulder and stepped back. “Break a leg.”

“Or a firewall,” he muttered darkly, but her teasing salute had already turned into a playful spin as she headed back for more coffee, leaving him to face up to the wolves of corporate bureaucracy.

Pia drew a breath as she closed the door behind her. The flat was cool and quiet, sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains. She pulled her tee-shirt off, tossing it onto a chair, and walked barefoot and half naked into the kitchen, reaching for a final cup of black coffee. “D’accord,” she murmured, glancing at the sticky note list she'd scribbled in a looping, bilingual scrawl. “Video, Groceries, Nettoyage a sec, Sweep everywhere, La piscine.” She reordered it mentally. Today wasn’t for adventures. Today was for domesticity. Pia got to work clearing the debris of breakfast.

Victor stood at the elevator bank at work, staring blankly at the flickering lights that announced the annoyingly uncoordinated progress of the lift cars up and down the building. His tie, Pia’s tie, felt tight, formal. His inbox was blowing up with new Jira tickets. His Calendar was full of unwanted meetings. Somewhere, a compliance officer was probably printing out reams of Pia’s rogue emails for a possible disciplinary hearing.

“I’m gonna die in this tie,” he muttered aloud.

A newly arrived coworker gave him a thumbs-up. “Lookin’ sharp, Davern!”

Victor sighed. “Yeah. Sharp. Like a knife.” He braced himself as the elevator pinged, and stepped inside to face the fallout. The colleague also entered. “Got an interview, is it?” he asked with a smirk.

Back at Pia’s condo, a middle-aged man in a khaki bucket hat was struggling with a hose in the communal gardens. Pia paused, groceries in hand, watching as the water pressure rebelled, sending a rogue spray directly into his face.

“Morning, Pete,” she called with a grin.

“Morning, love. Got any advice for taming this bloody thing?” Pete spluttered, waving the spray nozzle like a white flag.

“Have you tried turning it off and on again?” Pia deadpanned, stepping forward to help.

“Cheeky!” Pete chuckled, handing her the nozzle as he fiddled with the tap. “You’ve settled in alright, then?”

She smiled, her gaze taking in the well-kept gardens. “I love the gardens. You keep them so well. Thank you, Pete.”

The wild spray sputtered to a harmless drip. “There we go. Thanks for your moral support, Olympe.”

She smiled, shouldering her grocery bag again. “Anytime, Pete.”

He gave a raspy laugh as she climbed the narrow stairwell to her floor, jangling her keys. The building was full of life, the faint sound of radios from open windows, laundry flapping on the balconies.

As she unlocked her door, a soft voice floated from behind. “Ah, c’est vous, la nouvelle locataire…!”

Pia turned to see a woman standing at the next-door threshold: olive skin with smile lines around dark eyes, her long auburn hair streaked stylishly with silver, wrapped in a silk scarf. Her hand rested lightly on the doorframe.

“Bonjour,” Pia replied automatically in French, her face lighting up. “Vous êtes ma voisine ?”

“Oui, ma chérie,” the woman said warmly, and switched to accented English with a lilting rhythm. “I’m Renée. I’ve lived here… oh, longer than I like to admit.” Her eyes twinkled. “You are English? Or, no, I hear something else.”

“Born in London,” Pia confirmed. “But my mother is French. Je m'appelle Olympe Reese.”

Renée ’s face lit up even brighter. “Olympe! Quel joli prénom! We’ll have to toast that properly. Come, you must have a cup of tea with me soon. Or something stronger.”

Pia felt a warm bloom inside her. “That would be lovely.”

Renée leaned closer conspiratorially. “And if you ever need to hide from a bad date, my door is always open.” She winked, then nodded toward Pia’s groceries. “Go on, put those away. I’ll knock later. We neighbours must look after each other, hein?” With that, she disappeared into her unit, leaving behind the faint scent of jasmine flowers and expensive old perfume.

Pia stood for a moment, feeling as if Sydney was making room for her in unexpected ways. “Friendly neighbour, indeed.” She smiled to herself and went into her own unit to finish her housework. Pia was good at housework. Not just because she was an independent woman; she was fully capable of coercing the men in her life to take up the slack.

*Not that Vic is fully in my life yet, though hopefully he’s hooked, and I just need to reel him in. I wonder how it's going at the office? I'd better not bother him with messages now. That's how I started the whole mess in the first place, after all.* She thought.

You can't be a slob around your own home and keep up professional appearances outside it. (Actually you can, but Pia wasn't that kind of girl.) She had finished hanging out the laundry and was thinking of piano practice when there came a knock on the door, brisk, almost musical, two quick raps, a pause, then one more, as though announcing not just a visitor, but establishing a rhythm.

Renée stood there smiling, a small tray in her hands. A pair of delicate glasses stood on it, and a dusty bottle of something amber and enticing.

“Eh bien,” Renée said warmly, stepping forward without waiting for an invitation, “I thought, why wait for a bad date to need a drink? You’ve earned one simply for surviving the move in.” Her eyes swept appreciatively over the flat, taking in the fresh laundry, the gleam of just-mopped floors, the orderly kitchen. “Mon dieu! you’ve settled beautifully. You’re not like these messy little boys around here.”

She set the tray down on the dining table, deftly uncorking the bottle with a practiced twist. “Cognac. Not the cheap kind. Only for good neighbours.” She poured a finger into each glass and passed one to Pia. Her gaze softened as she lifted her own glass. “To a fresh start, ma belle. And to making this strange block feel like home.”

Meanwhile, across town, Victor slouched further down in his chair, rubbing at the knot of tension just below his neck. His tie was skewed sideways, his laptop humming ominously.

“Davern,” called a voice from the doorway. It was Mel from IT, arms folded, her eyebrows arched to the ceiling. “You’re lucky you’re cute, mate. Otherwise I’d throttle you for whatever the hell ran on the finance servers yesterday.”

Victor groaned. “Don’t even start, Mel. It wasn’t me. It was, uh…” He paused, lips twitching with confusion. “Actually, nah, it was me. Let’s go with that. Sounds less crazy.”

She smirked and tossed him a Snickers bar. “Eat something before your next compliance meeting. You look like a man about to plead guilty.”

Victor leant back, gazing vaguely toward the window, wondering what Pia was up to. Hopefully not detonating corporate infrastructure by accident. Hopefully doing something cool and mysterious and tidy. “Yeah,” he murmured aloud, smiling faintly, “I’m definitely out of my depth.”

Pia's eyes popped at the cognac. Another of her faults was a tendency to drink more than was really good for her, but spirits? This early in the morning? She cocked an eye at the clock, decided the sun was above the yard-arm -- to borrow a phrase from her British heritage -- and welcomed Renée into her life. They chatted in a mixture of French and English.

"I have only been here a fortnight, Renée. I still barely know the corners of my flat. How long have you lived in Bloomfield Street?"

Renée settled gracefully into a chair, crossing her legs at the ankle, swirling the cognac in her glass as though it were the most natural pre-noon ritual in the world. Her smile was wide and conspiratorial, eyes crinkling at Pia’s hesitation and the glance at the clock.

“Ah, chérie,” she laughed softly, lifting her glass in a tiny toast, “il est toujours l’heure quelque part, non?” She took a delicate sip, letting the warmth settle before answering. “Bloomfield Street? Oh la la… twenty years, I think. Maybe twenty-one. I came here after, well, Il y a des histoires compliquées.” Her gaze flicked toward the window, toward the skyline beyond. “But I stayed because, it’s funny, no? This building, it’s not beautiful, not modern, but it holds people like a basket. And we catch each other when we fall.”

She set her glass down gently, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “Now you’ve arrived, with your beautiful name and your sharp eyes and your quiet strength. I see it, you know.” She nodded knowingly. “Tu as traversé quelque chose. Tu portes des cicatrices invisibles. But here? You can be anything you want.” She gestured toward Pia’s Yamaha electric piano. “Et ça? You play? I used to sing, in another life. If you ever need a partner for a duet…” She trailed off, her smile deepening. “So. Tell me, Olympe. What are you dreaming for, in this new life of yours?”

At the office, Victor was halfway through Mel’s emergency choco bar, reading an email subject line that simply read: URGENT: RE: URGENT: RE: Compliance. He sighed heavily, typing back a half-hearted “I’ll be there” reply. Then, without meaning to, he opened a new tab. Typed in 'Bloomfield Street apartments.' Scrolled idly through a map. “I wonder if she’s home,” he thought, before clicking the tab shut and muttering, “Get a grip, Davern.” He loosened the emergency tie Pia had given him. It smelt faintly of her Erolfa perfume.

"The electric piano?” Pia replied. “Yes, I play and I sing. Not very well at the same time. You may have heard me practising. Painful to your ears, I'm sure. I apologise, Renée." She leapt up to switch the piano on.

"Shall we try something? I bought a lot of new sheet music. I've decided to go to open mic nights as a way of amusing myself." She sipped the cognac for courage and leafed through the folios, quickly selecting Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden, arranged for piano in a swing style. The opening notes began to filter out of the open balcony French windows, amusing Pete in the garden below.

Renée understood that Pia was engaged in a displacement activity due to nervousness about the unexpected arrival of this new, clearly sophisticated guest, who had advanced their relationship to the ‘tu’ stage so quickly and confidently. A cool young aunt, who might help and advise her in ways her mother would not always approve. She watched Pia leap up with an affectionate, knowing smile, following her movements with sharp, gentle eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

“Ah, mais non, ma chérie,” she murmured, amused. “You apologise as if you’re a burden. I tell you, the walls here are thick enough for secrets and thin enough for music. Never apologise for music.” She leant back in her chair as the piano hummed into life, her glass held loosely in her fingers, sunlight catching the liquid gold inside. Her expression softened as the first sultry, offbeat notes of Black Hole Sun floated through the room, warped into an unexpected, playful swing.

Outside, Pete paused mid-hedge-trim, grinning up at the balcony. “She’s full of surprises, that one,” he muttered to himself, tapping his secateurs in time with the rhythm.

Renée listened quietly for a while as Pia picked her way through the score, learning the fingering, then stood slowly and moved toward Pia, setting her cognac down beside the piano. “Let’s go again from the beginning.” Her voice was low and rich, picking up the melody, weaving in a quiet harmony. “Ne t’inquiète pas…” she said between lines, half-singing, half-speaking, encouraging Pia along. “I’m no Chris Cornell, but I can carry a note. Come, let’s amuse ourselves together.”

She tapped gently on the piano lid in rhythm, grounding Pia with her presence, folding herself into the music without overshadowing it. When the last playful chord faded, she beamed. “Bravo!” Her hands came together in a soft clap. “You, Olympe Reese, will have them eating out of your hand at those open mic nights. And if they don’t? I will sit in the front row and glare until they do.”

Renée tilted her head thoughtfully, eyes twinkling. “But I think… you are not really worried about music today. Tu es inquiète pour autre chose, n’est-ce pas?” She gestured gently with her chin toward Pia’s phone, abandoned on the table. “A man? A job? Or just the ghosts we all carry?” She folded her arms loosely, waiting, not pressing, just offering space. “Dites-moi, ma petite. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

At the office, Victor stared blankly at a compliance officer reading aloud another email chain Pia had accidentally set in motion.

“‘Please don’t forward this,’” the officer intoned dryly. “Followed by immediately forwarding it to seventeen recipients.”

Victor groaned into his hands. “That technically wasn’t my fault.”

The officer peered over their glasses. “Davern, who’s this Olympe?”

Victor paused, lips twitching into a smile despite the situation. “She’s… someone new.” He leant back.

“Someone very new.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 28: Drive

Once Pia had decided on a course of action she would carry it forward at full throttle. Maybe like a motor scooter, perhaps like a battle tank. Sometimes, often, she might take a wrong turn, but she always pressed on.

"I did a bad thing, Renée. I got a man into trouble whom I hope will be my boyfriend, and he slept here last night but nothing happened à cause des mes règles. Now Vic has gone to his office and must explain my mistake to his bosses. J'ai peur qu'il est dans le pot de chambre, et il sera chié dessus. I gave him a hard drive full of secrets, to help him defend himself."

She switched off the piano with an emphatic click, and took a deep pull at the fragrant cognac. "I'm sorry. I should treat your treat with more respect."

Renée ’s laughter bubbled out, soft and delighted, her eyes crinkling as she stepped closer, laying a warm hand on Pia’s shoulder.

“Ah, ma pauvre petite guerrière,” she murmured affectionately, “You paint such a picture.” She shook her head fondly, giving Pia’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “A man in a chamber pot… et tu sembles vouloir conduire un char d'assaut pour relever les défis de la vie.”

She crouched on her heels to meet Pia’s eyes, serious beneath the humour. “Listen to me, Olympe. If he is worth your heart, a little chaos at the office won’t scare him away. And if it does? Then he was never strong enough to be your man.”

Renée straightened, lifting her own glass and sipping slowly, savoring. “This cognac is not about respect, ma chérie. It is for sharing truth. For courage. You’re drinking it exactly as it should be drunk.” She stepped back, glancing out toward the balcony, watching Pete nod along to a phantom beat as he worked.

“You move fast, I see this. It’s not a fault. But maybe…” She glanced over her shoulder at Pia, smile softening. “Sometimes it’s good to let someone catch up to you, hm?” She lifted her glass again, in a quiet toast. “And your man? He will survive his chamber pot. If he has half a brain, he will know a woman like you doesn’t come along twice.”

Meanwhile, Victor stared at his computer, head in his hands, while Mel slid a cup of instant coffee onto his desk with a grim expression.

“Mate, you need to explain to them how an auto-forward script even got into the procurement server.”

Victor raised his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how she wrote it. She doesn’t even know!”

“Who’s she?”

He exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. “Just… Someone I’m hoping is worth all this.”

A compliance officer glared from the doorway, waving a thick folder ominously. Victor grimaced. “Please be worth all this, Pia.”

Renée smiled quietly as Pia drained the cognac, the click of the piano switch punctuating her confession like a full stop. She sat down again, swirling her own glass thoughtfully.

“Alors… You gave him your hard drive?” she asked lightly, eyebrows lifting with intrigue. “That is no small gift. Ça, c’est intime, ça. Like giving someone your diary, or your secret packet of old love letters.” She leant forward, her voice velvet-soft but amused. “Did you tell him what’s inside? Or did you hope he would discover, something?”

She tilted her head, her smile widening. “Olympe…,you are bold. And bold women frighten and delight men in equal measure. But this Vic, this man of yours, does he look more frightened, or delighted, when you charge at life like a lioness?”

Her gaze was gentle, but her words were warm and sharp. “Regrette rien, ma belle. Just don’t forget to let him breathe.”

She sipped again, then added wryly, “And maybe warn him if the hard drive has les surprises embarrassantes.”

At the office, Victor was sitting cross-legged under his desk, laptop perched on his knees, surrounded by a small barricade of printouts and empty coffee cups. Mel from IT peeked down at him, eyebrows arched high.

“Why are you under there?” she asked, chewing gum loudly.

Victor peered up miserably. “I’m hiding.”

Mel smirked. “From what. Compliance? HR? Me?”

He lifted the hard drive in one hand. “From this.”

She crouched beside him, squinting at the directory list scrolling across his screen. “What even is all that? ‘Modded Skyrim with vampire husbandos?’ ‘JavaScript experimental maze game’? ‘PiaScripts_v3_FINAL_finalFIXED.zip?’ Bro! What the feth?”

Victor groaned into his hands. “I didn’t even open half of it. I plugged it in to look at one file and somehow it auto-executed a cron job and started a text-to-speech reading of Les Misérables.”

Mel dissolved into laughter. “Oh, mate. You’re absolutely cooked.”

Victor rested his head against the desk leg. “Olivia’s gonna kill me if I tell her how much stuff got broken.”

Mel patted his shoulder sympathetically. “You better hope you can convince her it was all harmless.”

Victor sighed, closing his laptop with a soft click. “Yeah.”

"It wasn't really my personal hard drive,” Pia told Renée. “I, er, liberated it from somewhere with the help of a friend. Actually I should send some money to the café."

Pia's eyes suddenly flicked to the SD card lying in full sight on the kitchen peninsula. She looked away again, hoping Renée hadn’t noticed. "Well,” she continued, “All I can do is to hope, and wait for the result. By tonight I may be a single woman again. Not that I was properly in a couple yet. So in one sense it would be no loss." She got up to offer coffee and biscuits.

"I have macarons from La Durée. Would you like to try them, Renée? Or there are British chocolate digestive biscuits. It's the 100th anniversary of their invention. Let's have both."

Renée’s gaze, subtle as a cat’s, following Pia’s for just a heartbeat to the SD card before returning, utterly unruffled, to Pia’s face. If she noticed, she made no sign, only an amused lift of one eyebrow, as if quietly filing it away for later.

“Ah,” she said lightly, sipping the last of her cognac, “Liberated, you say. You are full of interesting verbs, ma belle.” Her smile was wry but fond. “It seems this boy Vic has already stepped into an adventure without knowing it.” She set her glass down, watching Pia’s sudden flurry of movement with affection. “Coffee would be perfect. And macarons? La Durée? Olympe, if you are trying to seduce me into friendship, you have already succeeded.”

Renée rose, smoothing the silk scarf at her throat, and stepped gracefully toward the kitchen, peeking over Pia’s shoulder. “I have always said, if you must live with heartbreak, it’s better to have good biscuits.” She laughed softly, then added, “Et cet Vic, il n’est peut-être pas encore ton homme, mais il est déjà dans ton cœur, non? Tu l’as déjà choisi.”

She leant against the counter, watching Pia plate up the delicate pastel macarons with precision. “He would be foolish to run, Pia. You’re a storm and a harbour at once. And men… ils aiment ça, même s’ils prétendent le contraire.”

She smiled again, softer now. “But if he’s truly a fool? Well.” She plucked a chocolate digestive from the packet, holding it aloft in mock solemnity. “Alors nous mangerons tout ça ensemble, toi et moi, et il ne saura jamais ce qu’il a perdu.”

Outside, Pete sneezed noisily as he battled an unexpected gust of pollen.

Renée tapped a digestive biscuit gently against her coffee cup, watching Pia with a warmth that felt quietly protective, as if she had already claimed the girl as one of her own.

Under his desk, Victor’s phone buzzed with a fresh notification. Compliance have requested an urgent follow-up meeting re unauthorized scripts. He groaned. “I’m never getting out of this hole.”

Mel leant down, deadpan. “Just keep your chin up, mate. Or at least above the edge.”

Victor let his head thunk gently against the desk leg.

"Should I send Vic a message, Renée? To encourage him? Or will that just interrupt his flow." She crammed a whole digestive into her mouth, crunched it up and swilled it down with a big gulp of coffee. "Things were easier in the old days. When I was alone."

Renée chuckled warmly at the sight of Pia stuffing the entire biscuit into her mouth, a gleam of mischief in her eyes as she handed over a napkin. “Ma chérie, if I had a coin for every time I thought that ‘things were easier alone', I’d own half of Paris by now.” She leant against the counter again, thoughtful, watching Pia swallow coffee like a sailor on shore leave drinking beer. “The truth? Alone is simpler, yes. Fewer risks. No one to disappoint you, no one to save. But easier?” She shook her head slowly. “Plus simple, mais pas aussi douce.”

She gestured toward Pia’s phone on the table. “As for messaging him… ça dépend. Do you want him to think of you now? Or do you want him to miss you when the day is done?” Her lips curved into a sly smile. “A little silence can be its own kind of invitation, tu sais? But if your heart worries, then send it. He will not mind. If he’s worth your time, he will be glad.” She stepped closer, brushing an imaginary crumb from Pia’s sleeve. “There is no right answer, Pia. Only what feels most like you.” She tapped the SD card once, lightly, deliberately, with the very tip of her fingernail. It clicked against the surface. “And whatever you do, choose it fully.”

Outside, Pete’s radio crackled on with a burst of ’80s pop, drifting faintly up through the open balcony doors.

“Alors,” Renée said brightly, picking up another macaron, “Tell me, Olympe. As you conquer Sydney, will you do it as a lonely queen, or with a knight by your side?”

Victor was staring at a PowerPoint deck titled “Incident Review Findings”. He thumbed his phone nervously. He hovered over Pia’s contact, thinking of her, half-expecting a message.

No new notifications.

“Stay out of it, Vic,” he muttered under his breath. Then glanced down at the tie she had given him. “Nah, she’s worth it.” And he started typing anyway. Then an incoming 'writing' alert sprang up.

"I'll keep it light,” Pia said. "I won’t ask direct questions, just let him know I'm here for him. Even though everything is my fault. Maybe he'll forget?" It seemed very unlikely but there was no other way to make amends. She tapped away at her smartphone. "@Bae. Hey, Bae, What do you want for dinner? I’m cooking."

Renée watched Pia's careful navigation of the Zen moment. Those taupe nailed thumbs tapped rapidly and deliberately. When the message pinged off into the ether, she exhaled softly, like a mother cat watching a kitten try its claws for the first time.

“Ahh… ‘Hey, Bae.’” Renée repeated it aloud, tasting the phrase like an exotic cocktail. “C’est charmant, ça. Très moderne, très mignon.” She lifted the cognac bottle thoughtfully, swirling what remained with a soft glou-glou-glou into their glasses. “Et voilà,” she pronounced grandly, setting the empty bottle down with a tap of finality. “For courage. Because I suspect, ma chérie, you will need it.” She clinked her glass gently against Pia’s, her eyes twinkling. “You have cast your line. Now you wait for your fish to take the bait.”

Renée reclined again, sipping slowly, savoring. “But between us, Olympe, it is no bad thing, you know. To let a man work for you a little. They get lazy, otherwise.” She winked, then gestured out at the gardens where Pete was still wrestling valiantly with his equipment. “Like Pete. Married thirty years, and still doesn’t know which end of the tool to hold.”

Pete looked up at the balcony, as if sensing he’d been mentioned, and waved cheerfully with the wrong end of a dibber.

Renée laughed softly, then looked back at Pia, her voice velvet again. “He will answer you, Olympe. Or he won’t. But either way… tu sera toi-même. Never shrink yourself for him.” She tipped her glass toward the phone, waiting with Pia in companionable silence.

Victor’s phone buzzed in his pocket as the compliance officer droned on about audit logs. He sneaked it out, thumb unlocking it under the table.

Hey, Bae, What do you want for dinner? I’m about to go shopping. He stared at it for a second. Then smiled. Slowly. He typed back without hesitation:

@Pia. Anything you cook. Except seafood. Surprise me <emoji: red heart> He pocketed the phone again, straightening his tie, suddenly buoyed up with hope.

“Davern?” the compliance officer said sharply. “Are you even listening?”

Victor’s grin widened. “Yeah. And for the record? I regret nothing.”

Pia stared owlishly down at Pete fiddling around in the communal gardens.

"Hey. Pete. Be careful out there. And if you break a leg, run up here and I'll sort you out. I know first aid."

Pete looked up from his battle with the tangled cord of an electric weed burner, squinting in the sun. “Break a leg? Run up there? Olympe, love, you do know how stairs work, right?” He grinned, giving her a mock salute with the wand and went back to wrangling it.

Pia turned back to her living room, where Renée was looking at the well chosen (not by Pia) furnishings and decoru. She was pacing slowly around the space, her fingertips trailing lightly along the back of a chair, pausing at a bookshelf to read a few spines -- titles in English, French and Japanese -- her eyes flicking appreciatively across the understated decor. “C’est beau. tasteful, not flashy. Someone’s hand was very, curated.” Her glance at Pia was knowing. “But not yours, hm? No shame in borrowing a little style from others.”

"Renée, you know better than me that a girl needs some mystery around her to increase her allure. So I won’t tell you. Well.” Pia sighed, “Whatever happens with Vic, it will still be better than my last two boyfriends."

Renée returned to the sofa, perching elegantly with a macaron, just as Pia’s phone trilled its secret song. She watched with an indulgent smile as Pia lunged for it like a cat after a mouse. The young woman snatched it up and read eagerly.

"I must cook him anything except seafood, he says. But there's a special offer at Woolies for fish on Fridays. I had thought a risotto with cockles and scallops would be nice. Oh dear, let me think. Renée, what would you advise in this situation?"

At Pia’s announcement, Renée let out a melodic hum, tilting her head. “Ah… il ne veut pas des fruits de mer… mais tu as déjà les coquillages…” Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. “You have ambition. I love this. But maybe, ma belle, tonight is not for making him nervous.”

She steepled her fingers beneath her chin, considering. “Men are simpler creatures than you think. If you cook too elegantly, he will panic. If you cook too plainly, he will take you for granted.” She sipped, then grinned slyly. “A risotto is still good. But… Hm. Make it forestier, with mushrooms and pancetta. Earthy. Hearty. Romantic without scaring him.” She stood, sweeping toward the kitchen. “And serve it with vin rouge, Pia. Wine for courage, like the cognac. And a simple dessert. Chocolate, always chocolate.”

Renée winked. “Un homme pourrait dire non aux fruits de mer, mais jamais au chocolat.” She took Pia’s arm gently, guiding her toward the pantry. “Come. We’ll plan this like a military campaign. You have already conquered his outposts. Now you feed him to keep him close.”

At the office, Victor leant back in his chair, rereading Pia’s message, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Mel peered over the cubicle wall. “What’s got you smiling like that? Did Compliance drop the charges?” Victor just shook his head, busy typing a response.

@Pia. I trust you. However you surprise me, I’m looking forward to it. <emoji: red heart>. He hit send, his heart unexpectedly light despite the weary day he was having. “Yeah,” he murmured to himself, “Definitely worth it.”

"Wild mushrooms and pancetta. Yes, brilliant, Renée! I can give him salumi as well. Boys love meat. And a bottle of a good red. Perhaps two bottles. And a salad. Cheese. Chocolate for pudding. We’re both addicted to Tim Tams. There must be a recipe on TikTok. Yes!"

The SD card lay forgotten on the counter as Pia deployed her mental firepower in menu planning.

Renée clapped her hands softly, delighted by Pia’s sudden burst of energy. “Ah! Voilà! Regarde-toi, ma lionne!” she exclaimed, laughing as Pia paced back and forth like a general surveying the battlefield. “Salumi, yes, excellent. Give him cured meat, he will think you are spoiling him. And the salad, make it simple, fresh. Maybe rocket, parmesan, a few toasted walnuts? Don’t overcomplicate. Let him see that you are clever and kind. Tim Tams for dessert?” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Tu es une magicienne, ma chérie. Find a way to melt them, drizzle them with cream, turn them into a mousse or a cake. Yes! TikTok will tell you everything.” She sipped the last of her cognac, watching as Pia flitted between fridge and pantry, phone in hand, already searching recipes.

“You see?” Renée said softly, mostly to herself. “She moves like a river when she decides to do something. Unstoppable.” Her gaze flicked briefly once more toward the forgotten SD card glinting innocently on the counter. Her smile deepened, unreadable for a moment. “Et les secrets? On verra ça plus tard…” She stood, gathering her scarf around her neck, stepping gracefully toward the door. “I leave you to your campaign, ma belle. If you need a taste-tester, or a co-conspirator, tu sais où je me trouve.”

She blew a kiss, and swept out with the air of a fairy godmother.

Pete looked up as Renée passed. “You two cooking up trouble in there?” Renée laughed lightly over her shoulder. “Always, Pete. Always.”

Pia’s phone buzzed again, Victor’s DM glowing on the screen.

I trust you. However you surprise me, I’m looking forward to it.<emoji: red heart>

The SD card lay neglected on the counter.

Invigorated by her encounter with the wise Renée, whose aunt energy was very strong, Pia surged into motion. She rapidly inventoried her food stores, and compiled a supplementary Click + Collect order at the local delicatessen. Then her eyes swept across the SD card.

"I have to deal with it. I’ll pick up the groceries later."

Two tedious hours of scrubbing back and forth ensued. Pia was soon convinced that she and Alex would be fully recognisable from the footage of them as they went about their minor malfeasance.

"I should fry it all."

But there was other stuff too. Some interactions between patrons whose behaviour patterns rang a bum note according to Pia's detective instincts. She sat still for several minutes, while her brain integrated the new information. The 17:00 news bulletin came on the radio. In local events, played out pretty much as a comedy item, there were some details of a computer heist at a downtown gaming café. No CCTV footage. The police were treating it as minor vandalism.

*Oh. Kay. I didn't do anything fundamentally wrong,* Pia thought. *But I can't just trash this footage until I've worked out why I've got this feeling.* She decided to let her subconscious mind handle the investigation for a while. She turned her attention back to the matter of dinner.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 29: Un dîner intime pour deux

Pia let her potential crime-related issues stew by themselves while she prepared a dinner calculated to lush up Vic bigtime. If he'd been canned from his job, it would console him. If he was angry with her, it would defuse his rage. If he was happy at the outcome of the day, it would boost his regard for her.

"Green salad with tomatoes and toasted pine nuts. Salumi and cheese. Risotto forestier with wild mushrooms and bacon lardons. Grilled French beans drizzled with lemon juice, proper balsamico, and good olive oil. Then the Tim Tam Mashup pudding. This is going to be Fire!" She tapped out a message.

"@Vic... Hey, Bae! I'm all set for dinner at mine. If you want to stay over, bring a weekend bag."

Victor’s phone buzzed on the passenger seat of the old Audi as he pulled up outside his place, surfboard still dripping from a twilight paddle. He glanced at the message, thumb hovering over the screen, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Olympe’s cooking. Proper home cooking.” His stomach answered with a low growl he couldn’t ignore.

He tossed the phone onto the dash and leaned back, gazing at the glowing horizon. A weekend bag. An overnight. That wasn’t casual. That wasn’t ‘just drop by.’ That was…”

He wasn’t sure if he deserved it yet. But hell if he wasn’t going. He moved on autopilot, stuffing clothes into a duffel, grabbing his toothbrush, throwing in a nicer shirt just in case. His fingers lingered over his cologne for a second before setting it aside. Maybe too much. Maybe not tonight.

He texted back, “@Pia: On my way, angel. Hope you’re ready”

And under his breath, as he locked the door behind him,”Because I’m bringing an appetite.”

Vic parked outside her condo 30 minutes later, his heart tapping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. His hand hovered over the intercom but instead of buzzing, he texted again.

“@Pia: Outside now. Do I need to go and fetch anything? Wine? Flowers? Emergency Tim Tams?” He imagined her rolling her eyes and smiled again, already feeling lighter than he had all day.

“@Bae: Just come up.” Pia buzzed the communal front door open.

Only Goddess could know all Pia's moods, so Vic didn't notice the slight ambivalence of her welcome; fulsome yet wary, until she could judge the results of his day of fraught meetings, a crisis precipitated by Pia's innocently intended but technically disastrous email bombing campaign.

"Vic!" A smacking kiss. "I've cooked up a storm for you. How was your day?" She drew Vic into her flat and offered drinks.

Victor let himself be tugged inside. The door swung shut behind him as he soaked her in, the shimmering warmth of her welcome, the radiant smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, the straight cut slip dress in plum silk, the long gold chain earrings and the Erolfa scent. He caught her around the waist, planting a kiss on her temple with a low hum.

“Mmm, it smells amazing. And you’re even better.” He pulled back, scanning her face, and mistook that flicker of wariness for simple anticipation. “Big day? You look like you’ve been plotting.” He glanced around the flat, clocking the effort she’d put into everything, the candles, the gleam of the table set just so, the Blue Note jazz playlist in the background. Affection squeezed his chest, though he felt a little guilt that he’d brought nothing but himself.

“My day was a mixed bag,” he admitted, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it over a chair. “And this,” He gestured toward the kitchen, the dining table, the whole tableau of care she’d laid out. “This is going to be the highlight by a very wide margin.”

Vic stepped closer, his hand brushing her hip as he took the cocktail she offered him. “Okay, let’s see: if this is an apology dinner, you’re forgiven. If it’s a celebration dinner, I’m impressed. And if it’s a bribe, ” his grin deepened, teasing her, “You might have got me right where you want me.” He raised the glass to toast her, cocking an eyebrow. “So, tell me, Olympe Pia Reese: what’s the headline of your day?”

"This is a 'hope I don't owe you a motorbike' dinner," Pia threw out all casual and quickly changed the subject. "My headline is that I met a lovely neighbour today, a French lady, Renée, who by luck lives next door. She heard me swearing in French and brought me a bottle of very good cognac. I am absolutely taken with her!" Pia poured wine and helped Vic to plenty of salumi and cheese to go with it. She handed him the bread basket.

Vic chuckled, rolling the phrase around like a pebble in his mouth. “‘Hope I don’t owe you a motorbike’ dinner? Oof. You really have been plotting.” His lips quirked, but he let it lie for now, happily accepting the loaded plate. As he bit into a slice of salami, his eyes lit up.

“Damn, Pia. You’re spoiling me. I could get used to this.” It was hand-sliced, from a delicatessen, not the supermarket packet stuff. He chased it with wine, watching her move around the kitchen like a dancer in a private performance. “Renée, huh?” he mused, swirling the glass. “I like her already. Smart lady, bringing cognac to a woman who swears in French. I mean, that’s how friendships are forged, right?” He grinned, leaning back with his ankle propped on his knee.

“Did she warn you about any other neighbours? You know, grumpy old men, weirdos with snakes, aspiring DJs, bagpipe players?” His tone was playful but affectionate. “Anyway, it sounds like you’re settling in pretty damn well.” He paused, his face softening as he topped up her glass. “I like seeing you like this, Pia.” He clinked his glass lightly against hers. “Happy. And possibly tipsy later, if Renée’s cognac makes an appearance.”

"If I get drunk you must protect me, Vic. I may slip while dancing. Your strong arms can save me." It was a move Pia had often used to evaluate potential boyfriends. A deliberate stumble to test how well they synced with her physically. She smiled quietly. "Seriously though, Vic, how did it go at the office? I know I may have got you into a lot of trouble. I can only try to make it up to you." She ate salad and cheese, to leave more of the salumi for Vic. He chuckled warmly at her theatrics, his eyes gleaming as he lifted his arms in mock readiness

“If you slip, Pia, I promise, I’ll catch you. I’ll always catch you.” He leaned forward, his teasing giving way to something steadier underneath. He watched her smile, that knowing smile, and felt an unfamiliar ache under his ribs, a sweetness curling through him like incense smoke. She was playing a game, but part of him hoped she meant it, that she wanted him to pass whatever invisible test she’d set. At her shift in tone, he set down his glass, turning a little more serious.

“Hey.” His hand brushed lightly against hers where it rested on the table, just a fleeting touch. “It wasn’t your fault. You were trying to reach out to me. You didn’t know the ripple it’d cause.” He let out a low breath, rolling his head around to ease the last tension in his neck.

“But yeah, it was… Tense. Some pretty uncomfortable conversations. My manager wasn’t thrilled about her inbox turning into a battlefield.” He half-laughed, shaking his head. “But nothing permanent. Nobody’s sacked. I just got flagged for a ‘chat’ on Monday.” He reached for more salumi, grateful she’d left the lion’s share.

“Honestly? It could’ve been way worse. But,” he pointed the knife at her with a crooked grin, “You are making it up to me. This dinner? This…” he gestured vaguely at the cosy table, her glowing face across from him, “This is already more than enough.” He held her gaze a moment longer, then popped mortadella into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Besides… I might’ve needed a little shake-up at work. Get me out of a rut. You’re good at that, you know.” His smile softened. “Shaking things up.”

"Well.” Pia blinked, paused and thought about Vic's words. She smiled. “I don't want to shake you right out of your tree, Vic, just to keep life fresh and exciting. Let me know if I become too much. Though I might not listen. For which I apologise in advance." She ate up her salad. "Anyway, for now it looks as if things are going to be okay. Let's enjoy the weekend and let Monday look after itself. We can go surfing tomorrow, unless you're too tired."

Victor’s face lit up at that, his grin stretching wide and easy, like the sun sliding out from a cloud. “Nah, Pia, you’re exactly the kind of too much I can handle.” He raised his glass again, clinking it lightly against hers with a wink. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.” He leaned back in his chair, watching her serve the risotto, her hazel eyes soft and luminous in the low light. Something in her words made his chest swell, this blend of care and wildness, the way she held him and let him run at the same time.

“Beach tomorrow?” he repeated, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Hell yeah! Surf’s supposed to be clean in the morning. And no chickening out,” he grinned, pointing a playful finger at her, “Even if you wipe out.”

They were hungry, the risotto was deeply savoury and appetising, and for a few minutes, Vic and Pia applied themselves to eating. Eventually Vic scraped up the last of the rice, satisfied, then stood to help clear plates. “You’re right, though. Monday can wait.” He paused by her side, his hand lightly brushing her shoulder as he leaned close, murmuring near her ear, “Thank you for this wonderful dinner.”

She shook her head, smiled. “You deserve it after the week I’ve put you through. Anyway, I’m totally ready for the beach tomorrow. Jules is holding my new board for me. But if you’re too tired we can go in the afternoon."

Victor’s eyebrows shot up, delight flickering across his face. He slid the plates into the sink, then turned back to her, leaning a hip against the counter, wine glass dangling loosely in his hand. “Nah, don’t worry about me, angel. I’ll be fresh as. Morning’s best for clean waves anyway. We’ll get in early, beat the crowds.”

His eyes softened as he watched her, warmth blooming in his chest at how she’d quietly stitched herself into his world already. “And if you’re nervous, I’ll paddle out right beside you. Won’t let you drift too far.” He grinned, raising his glass again. “To tomorrow. To no wipe outs. To you absolutely wiping out but making it look cool anyway. Now seriously, Pia, where’s the pudding? I’ve been a very good boy.”

Pia fetched the Tim Tam mashup she made from a TikTok video. Put coffee on to brew. Side eyed Vic, saying, "Don't be too confident of the morning, Bae. I've got plans. I want to climb you like a tree. If either of us can walk afterwards, I'll feel a failure at life."

Victor froze mid-sip, nearly choking on his wine as her words landed like a firecracker in the cozy kitchen. His eyes snapped to hers, wide and glittering with a stunned delight that melted quickly into a slow, wicked grin.

“Oh… damn.” He set the glass down with deliberate care, stepping toward her, his voice dropping to a rumbling purr. “You… really don’t do things by halves, do you, Olympe Reese?”

He stopped just shy of touching her, letting the tension hum between them, his gaze roaming her face and figure appreciatively. “Climb away, angel. But fair warning to you…” he leaned in, close enough for his breath to tickle her cheek, “I’m a tall tree. You might get stuck up there.”

Then he straightened, laughing softly, ruffling a hand through his hair as if trying to shake off the heat curling under his skin. “God, you’re dangerous.” He shook his head, smiling as he turned to the pudding, pretending to inspect it but clearly still reeling. He glanced back over his shoulder, voice warm and teasing: “Better feed me up then. Gonna need my strength.”

Pia slid a plate of her odd pudding creation in front of Vic but she didn't join him. She switched on her piano, arranged some sheet music, and began to play. At first she did some scales and arpeggios to limber up her fingers. She began something classical, rolling up and down the keyboard like a gentle rain. It seemed to be a warm-up before the piece she really wanted to perform.

When Pia felt ready, she set up another sheet, poised her hands, took a deep breath, and began to play. The opening notes of Alicia Keys's Falling rang out into the Sydney night, followed by Pia's voice carrying the bitter-sweet message of on-off love, one of the most poignant love songs there is on piano, particularly since that's how Alicia originally wrote and performed it.

Pia made a few mistakes, and her voice wasn't pro level but she projected deep emotions. Outside, Pete the gardener listened, thinking, "Damn, if I was a few years younger I'd about smash her door down." He went on sweeping autumn's dead leaves. Renée leant out over her balcony next door, sipping wine and remembering lost loves. *I'm still young, I can find someone.* A tear dropped into her glass.

Victor became still, his spoon forgotten as the melody rippled through the flat. The rippling notes wrapped around him, weaving into the warm air scented with wine and coffee and chocolate and the subtle trace of Pia’s perfume. His chest tightened as her voice, imperfect, raw, real, broke over the lyrics, each phrase carrying something fragile and fierce beneath the casual bravado she’d worn all evening.

He sat back slowly, forgetting the pudding entirely, watching her from his seat like she was something wild and luminous, caught for a moment in the flickering candlelight. Her hands faltered once or twice, but she pressed on, pouring herself into the song like a confession she couldn’t quite speak aloud.

Outside, a warm breeze stirred the dry leaves. Pete paused his sweeping again, sighing toward the stars. A smile ghosted across his weathered face as he returned to his broom.

Renée closed her eyes, letting the music seep into her bones, the tear sliding down her cheek leaving a cool track. She raised her glass in a quiet salute toward Pia’s glowing window. “Yes, ma belle,” she whispered. “You sing it true.”

Inside, Victor rose silently, stepping forward to stand by the piano. He didn’t interrupt, just rested his hand lightly on her shoulder as the final chords faded into the night, letting his warmth speak for him.

When the last note hung trembling in the air, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

“You’re beautiful when you sing like that, Pia.” He said in a low voice, then a smile curled into his words, “And I’m absolutely wrecked.”

Pia looked up, her eyes glowing.

"Take me to bed."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 30: Fade to Black

Her quiet command cut through the atmosphere like a machete.

Victor straightened, his eyes dark and tender, with a spark of some deeper passion. “Yeah,” he murmured, his hand tracing gently from her shoulder down her arm, fingers brushing hers as he switched off the Yamaha. “Yeah, angel. I’ve got you.” He turned off the lamp by the piano, letting the room fall into the hush of warm, flickering candlelight. His other hand found the small of her back as he guided her toward the bedroom. His steady touch was a slow gravity drawing them closer with every step.

At the doorway, he paused, his palm lingering against her cheek. “You sure?” he asked softly, protectiveness in his voice even though heat shimmered below it. “Not just the wine talking?” But his smile was already breaking across his face, soft and crooked and completely gone for her. “Because if it’s you talking, Pia,” His lips hovered close, brushing hers like a promise. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Pia's actions spoke for her. It was months since she had last had truly joyful sex. Hormones were zinging in her blood. Vic was a vision of male beauty, his long hair still faintly damp from the sea. He smelt of brine and sun, wine and the food she had made for him. She yearned for his touch, his tongue, his hands all over her. She wanted to climb him, to ride him, to be ridden in turn, to explode and faint, to die in ecstasy. Pia pulled Vic to her bed with the lithe movement of a hunting pantheress.

Victor followed willingly, helplessly, utterly hers in that moment, caught in the grip of her fierce, electrifying hunger. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as she led him with that lithe, predatory grace, the low light gilding her skin in molten gold. He barely registered the soft rustle of their clothes dropping to the floor, the faint creak of the bed as she pushed him down. His hands skimmed her hips as she climbed into his lap, every inch of her glowing with power and joy.

“God, Pia,” he breathed, his voice rough, his lips tracing her collarbone as she pressed herself closer. “You’re… you’re incredible.” He sank beneath her rhythm, his hands roaming her back, her thighs, tracing out the heat and strength and softness of her. His laughter mingled with hers when she teased him. His moans got deeper as she took what she wanted, and gave him what he needed.

Outside, the autumn breeze carried their sounds into the quiet night. Pete paused again beneath his window, grinning and shaking his head. “Well… damn good for them,” he muttered fondly, and went inside.

Renée closed her balcony doors gently, leaving the faint echoes to fade, smiling wistfully as she drew a blanket around her shoulders.

Two hours later, Pia lay in a sweaty huddle with a sleepy Vic. She traced a finger over his chest, wondering once again how a man's sexual release felt to him. She knew her body. With a lover as sympathetic and capable as Vic had just proved himself, her climax was like a tsunami, building slowly, inevitably, flooding and overwhelming her, and draining away to leave her like scattered wreckage. For a man, she imagined it was more like a volcanic eruption, a build-up of pressure which peaked suddenly in an explosion.

"Either way it's a hot mess," she muttered.

Victor let out a lazy chuckle, his chest rising beneath her fingertip as he draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her snug against his side. His hair was damp again, this time from sweat rather than seawater, sticking to his neck and shoulders.

“A hot mess,” he echoed, amused, letting the words roll around his mouth. “Yeah, babe. I reckon that’s about the most accurate description I’ve ever heard.” He tilted his head, looking down at her with a soft, sleep-heavy grin. “Except with you, it’s more like bloody fireworks.” He gave her hip a playful squeeze. “Every time I think, that’s it, can’t get better than this, you go and blow up the sky again.”

He shifted slightly, kissing the top of her head, his voice dropping to a gentle, content rumble. “And then you leave me here, wrecked and happy and wondering how I got so lucky.” A pause, then a teasing glint in his eye. “Maybe I should start surfing you instead of the waves.” He winced at his own joke, laughing quietly. “Terrible. I know. Too soon.” He brushed a thumb along her jaw, eyes warm and full of something deeper, unspoken. “But seriously, are you okay? I didn’t, er, go too hard, did I?”

"Vic, sometimes I like to be banged so hard I can barely walk the next day. If you did start to push me beyond my limits I'd tell you. And the last guy who did that, who ignored my boundaries, really regretted it. Don't ask me now what happened. I'm in too good a mood to have it spoilt." She grinned and kissed Vic's nipple. "Do you want a shower? We really should sleep soon or we'll be useless in the morning."

Vic exhaled slowly, a ripple of relief crossing his mind at her words. He cradled the back of her head gently, his fingers stroking small, gentle circles against the nape of her neck as she kissed him. “Thanks for telling me, Pia,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, “And, for trusting me.” He let out a soft laugh, glancing down at her, utterly smitten. “You’re a force of nature, you know that? A bloody cyclone in a five-foot-nine package.”

He stretched lazily, a satisfied groan rumbling from deep in his throat. “Mmm, a shower sounds good, but if I stand up right now, you might find me asleep under the water.” He grinned crookedly, ruffling her hair. He rolled them both gently, tucking her against him. “Let’s stay like this a bit longer. Then we can stumble in together and pretend we’re capable adults.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his eyelids growing heavy. “Besides,” he added with a sleepy smirk, “if I fall over, you’ll just climb me again.”

Pia threw a leg over and between Vic’s. She carried on her finger tip tracing of patterns on hiss chest. "Do you think next door heard us?"

Vic let out a soft, rumbling laugh, his chest vibrating gently beneath her tracing fingertip. He turned his head to nuzzle her hair, lips brushing her temple with an affectionate warmth. “Oh, babe,” he drawled, voice drowsy and amused, “I heard us, and I was kinda busy at the time.” He grinned lazily, his hand skimming the curve of her back. “So yeah, chances are pretty high the neighbours copped an earful.” He glanced toward the window with a faint smirk. “Renée’s probably pouring herself another glass of wine as we speak.”

His gaze dropped back to Pia, softer now, playfully fading into something more tender. “You embarrassed?” he asked lightly, though his eyes held a curiosity, a quiet respect for wherever she wanted to take the question. His fingers threaded idly through her hair, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because of me? I’m kinda proud. Feels like the whole world should know you’re mine tonight.”

"I get excited thinking about it. Because I'm a right perve, Vic. One of my little kinks.” She sniggered. “Another one is always tidying the kitchen before going to bed."

Victor burst out laughing, full and warm, his hand sliding up to cup her cheek as he gazed at her with sheer delight. “A right perve, huh?” he echoed, shaking his head fondly. “God, Pia, you’re unreal.” He kissed her nose lightly, his grin still lingering. “Gotta admit, I love that about you. Never know what’s coming next.” He laughed again, softer this time, at her kitchen confession. “That’s your other kink? Bloody hell, Reese.” He mock-groaned, flopping back onto the pillow. “Here I was, bracing for something wild, and it’s washing up.”

He peered down at her with a teasing smirk. “So what you’re telling me is, if I clean the counters well, I get you all hot and bothered?” He waggled his eyebrows ridiculously. “Because babe, I’ll sanitize the hell outta that kitchen if it turns you on.” He stroked her back again. “But seriously, want me to help? Or are you gonna prowl around in nothing but a tea towel and drive me insane?”

"Maybe I’ll put something on. Or maybe not. A girl needs to keep some mystery around her. To create her allure. So wait and see.”

Pia gave Vic's nipple a gentle final nibble, then rolled off the bed and picked up the mess, the used condoms, tissues and crumpled clothes. She nudged the door open with a swing of her hips, and waltzed out naked and smiling.

One of Pia's mysteries was the scars on her left forearm. Not from self-harming, because they were in the wrong location. But they meant something.

Victor watched her go, propped up on one elbow, utterly entranced as the candlelight danced on her bare skin. Her smile, mischievous, triumphant, stayed etched in his mind as she swept out of the room, hips swaying with a blend of grace and swagger that was pure Pia. “Yeah,” he murmured under his breath, a soft, reverent smile tugging at his lips. “Allure, alright.”

He let himself sink back into the pillows, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling as her footsteps tapped into the kitchen. Somewhere in the background came the faint clink of glasses, the hum of running water, the rustle of tidying. It made his chest ache in the best way, a domestic quiet, stitched together by the wildness they had just shared. His gaze flicked toward the half-open door, lingering on the thought of those red scars he’d glimpsed earlier. He hadn’t asked. Not yet. They weren’t old enough to fade, and they were bad enough to have a story. And he could wait for it, whenever she was ready.

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to her bustling around the flat, feeling a peace settle over him, warm and unfamiliar. Then he grinned and called out, “Oi, Reese! You need a washer-upper?”

"Go and wash yourself, Davern!"

Victor barked a laugh, the command snapping him right out of his reverie. “Yes, ma’am!” he called back, grinning like a fool as he swung his legs off the bed. He stretched, groaning theatrically, every muscle delightfully tired, before loping to the bathroom. “Bossy and tidy. Knew I was in trouble.”

As he turned on the shower, he caught his reflection in the mirror, scruffed-up hair, faint bite marks on his chest, and happy exhaustion stamped across his face. His grin softened into something gentle as he stepped under the water, letting the heat wash over and relax him. The thought of Pia naked in the kitchen, humming while she wiped down counters with that same focused intensity she’d brought to him earlier made his chest tighten again, some deep tenderness blooming beneath the heat.

He finished quickly, towelling off, calling out toward the kitchen: “Alright, angel! I’m officially washed and respectable. Do I pass inspection, or are you gonna find more chores for me?” He peeked around the doorframe, towel slung low on his hips, hair dripping into his eyes, watching her with that soft, lopsided grin that was becoming all hers.

Pia turned at Vic's voice, smiling to see his half naked body, his emerald eyes, his grin, his long blond hair.

"Let me check." She ran one hand over Vic's chest, around his neck and pulled his face down, not for a kiss. She butted her forehead gently with Vic's and stared close into his eyes.

"I love the way you smell, so clean and so... Male." Pia smelt of girl sweat and sex, of the evening's food and drink, of dish washing liquid and damp tea towels. A trace of her perfume. She pressed her mouth to his neck, nuzzled the soft skin gently for a moment, then delivered a sucking kiss so powerful it was almost as painful as erotic.

"There. I’ve marked you for mine, Vic. Go to bed. I'll be with you after a shower."

His hands circled her waist, fingers brushing tenderly along her back. He didn’t try to kiss her, something in her eyes told him this wasn’t that kind of moment. It was more real than that. He stepped back, reluctantly letting her go, catching the flash of her in motion as she turned toward the bathroom, all sleek curves and shadowed hips. “Don’t be long, Pia. The bed misses you already.”

Vic sloped back to the bedroom, towel still around his hips, turning off the last kitchen light as he passed. The flat fell into soft shadow, filled only with the sound of the shower, creaks of the wood floor, and the quiet pulse of two people who were at the beginning something. He curled on his side, one hand resting on her pillow, where her scent lingered. Eyes half-closed, he waited for her to join him.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 31: On The Beach


Pia Reese stood proudly with her brand new board, just collected from Vic's friend Jules's surf shop, the Board Walk. Her whole body rash suit was like a second skin, its Mondrian design of multi-colour panels standing out from the usual crowd of black, grey or dark blue cloth, showcasing her svelte figure. She should have been scanning the breakers, judging the state of the surf, and deciding where to launch. But she had a bone to pick with her boyfriend.

"Your Audi's a fuccing bomb, Vic. And I don't mean in a good way. I don't know much about cars but I know they shouldn't make noises like yours does. When are you going to trade it in? If you wait for it to die somewhere like a camel in the desert, you'll end up wasting money to get the wreck towed away for scrap."

Victor slouched back against the driver’s side door of the aforementioned Audi, which was parked crookedly on the gravel verge beside the beach car park. The bonnet still ticked with heat, like it was trying to apologise for the rattling, wheezing internal drama had accompanied their arrival. He folded his arms and gave Pia a slow once-over, grinning despite her automotive savaging.

"You look like a futuristic traffic light, and I mean that in the best way," he said, cocking his head. "Also, rude! That’s Ziggy. He’s got soul. You don’t just ditch a car like that." Vic's board was resting in the sand nearby, waxed and ready, though he hadn’t moved toward the waves yet. Pia, gleaming like an abstract sculpture, kind of stole the show.

"Anyway, Jules says it’s just a loose heat shield. I can fix it myself. Or Dan can. He’s good at improvising when he’s not catching fish or talking to dolphins or whatever he does in his free time.” He patted the car, brushed imaginary dust from his board shorts, and stepped toward her, eyes narrowing playfully. "You done roasting Ziggy, or should I get him a therapy session while we surf?"

Pia preened in her dramatic suit. But she still had beef.

"Soft soap me all you like, Vic, I still hold that standing by you through trouble doesn't include the hard shoulder of the M1 while Ziggy coughs his poor old lungs out. My new Jimny XL will be delivered soon. I ordered a roof rack for boards. You can borrow her, if you promise to treat her right."

Pia was actually in a very good mood. The English are never happier than when they’re complaining, and they only sledge on close friends. If Pia was being very polite, that's when you would have to tread carefully around her.

Victor gave a low whistle. “A Jimny XL, no less. Fancy. You’ll be the envy of every off-road tradie and hipster dad from here to Melbourne.” He stepped closer again, eyeing her board, her skinsuit, her delightful irritation, and finally the breakers rolling gently behind her. “And I will borrow her, thank you. I’ll even wash the sand off the mats.”

"Or just ask Tommo to fix Ziggy,” Pia suggested. “He does a great job with my Vespa. Partly because she never goes wrong except once when someone broke the mirror off.” She changed the subject and looked out to sea. “What do you think of the waves?"

He squinted at the surf. “Waves are okay. A bit mushy, but well shaped. Might clean up with the tide. Longboard conditions, really.”

“Oh God. Dan’s here,” Vic muttered, as if it were a harbinger of chaos. A battered Toyota Prado rolled to a halt behind Ziggy. From the passenger side emerged a petite woman in oversized sunglasses and a linen beach dress; Kiri, Dan’s wife, laughing from something that had happened inside the car. Dan himself unfolded from the driver’s side with all the grace of a six-foot-three albatross wearing reef sandals. Two surfboards were lashed precariously to the roof-rack with what looked suspiciously like gardening twine.

“Oi oi!” Dan called, loping over with the long gait of a man whose joints probably only worked properly in the water. “Is that Olympe in full Mondrian drag? You’re not gonna disappear into an art gallery by accident, are you?”

Kiri trotted behind him, sliding her sunnies up into her hair. “Ignore him, he’s had two coffees and no breakfast.”

Dan’s grin widened. “Vic, your car was making actual death rattles when you passed us on Anzac Parade. Thought you were carrying scrap. Then I realised you were the scrap.”

“Ziggy is fine,” Vic deadpanned. Then to Pia, sotto voce: “This is why I shouldn’t tell Dan things. He weaponises them.” He looked back at the water. “You two getting in? Or are we just gonna roast my car and admire Pia’s fashion sense all morning?”

Pia coughed sharply into her fist, wanting Dan or Vic to introduce her properly to Kiri, as this was their first meeting. Victor glanced sideways at Pia’s deliberate cough. Ah, right. He straightened his shoulders with the air of a man about to perform a social ritual and turned to Kiri with a crooked smile.

“Kiri, this is Pia Reese, retired detective, surf novice, Vespa enthusiast, and recently crowned queen of rash suit couture.” He stepped aside with a mock-formal wave of the hand.

“Pia, this is Kiri Huia. She's an environmental scientist, a terrifyingly good paddleboarder, and somehow married to that guy,” he jerked his thumb toward Dan, who was currently trying to remove the boards from the roof with all the subtlety of a demolition crew.

Kiri stepped forward, offering a warm hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Dan’s been going on about Vic’s ‘mystery woman’ for a fortnight.”

Dan, still wrangling the boards, shouted over, “She shot a guy in the States, right? Vic said!”

Victor winced. “Jesus, Dan.”

Kiri, completely unfazed, just raised a brow. “Well. That’s not in the standard surf club icebreaker questions, but… intriguing?” She turned back to Pia with a grin. “I’d love to hear that story sometime. Preferably not right before we get in the water.”

Pia looked stunned at the unexpected revelation of her spitfire past, the story she had told Vic to explain her bullet scar. Even though it was bound to come out eventually. Her mouth dropped open and she stammered.

"I, I… I didn’t kill him!” She unconsciously put her hand to the place where the scar was hidden by her suit. She took a deep breath, to steady herself, and smiled. “Kiri? That's such a lovely name. Is it Maori? Like Kiri Te Kanawa? My actual name is Olympe. Pia is a nickname for close friends. I hope you'll use it, please."

Kiri noted that Pia was indeed a Pom, as advertised by Dan in earlier off-screen chatter. She caught the flicker of dismay on Pia’s face, the faltering attempt at poise, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go.

“Yes, it’s Māori, my mum’s from Rotorua,” she said warmly, with a sympathetic tilt of her head. “And Olympe, wow, that’s beautiful. I’ll stick with Pia though, if you mean it. Seems to fit you. Short, direct, sharp edges, soft centre.”

Her eyes crinkled as she added, “And yes, you’re exactly as Pommy as advertised. I mean that in the best way possible. I spent a year in Manchester, I’m fluent in sarcastic now.”

Meanwhile, Vic and Dan were roasting each other in typical matey style. Of particular interest was a spectacular love bite that had bloomed on Vic's neck above the collar of his suit. Dan was using his board to poke at Vic’s chest.

“Mate,” Dan said, his voice dripping with theatrical concern, “what is that on your neck? Did you get stung by a horny jellyfish? Or is Pia marking her territory like a lioness?”

Victor made a show of adjusting the collar of his springsuit to no avail, the deep red-purple love bite was perfectly framed like a cursed medal of honour. “She’s very passionate,” Vic said grandly, flashing Pia a side-eye that was all cheek. “Unlike some people, who rely on brute strength and cringey metaphors to impress their wives.”

Dan let out a bark of laughter. “Oi, I didn’t even kiss Kiri till our third date. You, on the other hand, look like you’re in the deleted scenes of a Young Adult vampire movie.”

Vic threw a handful of sand at him. “Jealousy isn’t a good look, Daniel.”

Kiri, watching this unfold, leaned into Pia with a grin. “They’re always like this. Do they think it’s for our benefit?”

"There are times a woman should pretend she doesn't hear anything the menfolk are talking about,” Pia stated, “Or it will just encourage them." She bent close and whispered into Kiri's ear. "The Japanese call that kind of bruise a kiss mark. I rather like the name." In a normal voice, "I love your dress! Is it linen? How do you find it for the autumn weather?

Kiri's face lit with delight at the whispered aside, eyes sparkling behind her sunglasses. “Kiss mark,” she repeated in a hushed tone, clearly charmed. “That’s so much better than 'hickey.' Leave it to the Japanese to make something saucy sound poetic.”

She twirled a little at Pia’s compliment, letting the hem of the cream dress float around her calves. “Yes, it’s linen. Locally made, actually. Got it from the weekend market at The Grounds. It’s light enough for the sunshine but I’ve got leggings and a cardi in the car for later. I’m always cold after a swim. Unlike your boyfriend, apparently. He’s overheating just fine.”

Vic, now shoulder-checking Dan in slow motion as they made their way down to the tideline, turned his head at the exact moment Pia glanced over, caught her eye, and grinned like a man entirely pleased with himself. He might’ve stuck his tongue out. Unclear. He was back to laughing with Dan before it could be confirmed.

Kiri turned back, murmuring conspiratorially. “So how long have you two been... that close?”

"Truthfully? A couple of weeks. Though I count myself a failure, as Vic can still walk. I must try harder." Pia grinned, and her eyes twinkled as she looked to see Kiri's reaction. "We've been kind of seeing each other for a while. Vic's actually very sweet and respectful, almost bashful. Around me, anyway. I like that a lot. I've had some very bad boyfriends."

Kiri burst out laughing at the first part, a hand flying to her chest in delight. “Oh my god, you’re a menace,” she said with pure admiration. She tilted her head, watching Pia’s face soften with the second half, something gentler beneath the mischief.

“That makes sense,” she said quietly. “I thought I saw a little of that in the way he looked at you. Like he’s bracing for impact, but in the best way. And sweet and respectful’s a good start. Especially after bad ones. I had a few of those myself. Thought I had to shrink down to fit inside their egos, y’know? Dan’s the first man who ever made me feel like I could expand.” She tucked a windblown lock of hair behind her ear, her tone of voice still light, but layered with knowledge.

“Sounds like Vic’s doing something right.”

Down by the water, Vic turned and yelled over the breeze, “Oi, Pia! If we wait any longer, Dan’s gonna start doing yoga stretches and I’ll die of second-hand embarrassment!”

Kiri stage-whispered, “He will, too. And no one wants to see those shorts from that angle.”

Pia muttered "Seal the crack!" and giggled. "I liked Dan the first time I met him. He was here at the beach when I came down to go swimming." She left out the part about her changing her top in public. Female common sense informed her that wives aren't usually keen on their husbands ogling half-naked young women at the beach.

Kiri let out a scandalised snort at seal the crack, and nodded with mock gravity. “Exactly. Some sights can’t be unseen. And Dan has no concept of modesty, he once changed into boardies on a ferry deck. In front of a school group.”

"Shall we let them go and get tired, Kiri? I want to go out but I'm only a beginner. It would be lovely to talk and find out more about Sydney life. I'm so new here. Googling restaurants is fine, but it's no substitute for a native's views. Though perhaps you're fairly new too, as you're from New Zealand."

Kiri lit up at Pia’s suggestion. “Yes, please. Let’s leave them to their testosterone Olympics. I’ll paddle out with you. I promise not to show off. And I’d love to help you get settled. I’ve been here nearly five years now, so I’m practically a local.” She bent down to adjust her ankle leash and added, “I can tell you which restaurants are overpriced influencer traps and which ones actually make good dumplings. Also, which bars to avoid unless you like corporate blokes in gingham check shirts calling you ‘girl’.”

"I love dumplings. And cocktails. And I don't mind being called 'girl' if it's in the right tone of voice. Which means only Vic's allowed to say it." Pia put on her leash and lofted her brand new board.

Kiri grinned at Pia’s remark. “Fair enough. If Vic says ‘girl’ the way he looks at you, I’d probably swoon too.” She stood, board tucked under one arm. “Shall we wade in, Pia? The ocean here’s less intimidating when someone’s beside you.”

"I've been out here precisely once before, Kiri. Vic lent me his board the day we first met. I did okay then, and I hope my luck will hold."

The two girls ran down to the waterline and splashed into the sandy water, wading out quickly, as it was still a comfortable temperature, about 20 degrees C. Pia got onto her board and paddled slowly until she could judge how strong Kiri might be.

Kiri matched Pia step for step as they dashed through the shallows. Salt spray misted the air and the roar of the breakers turned everything cinematic. Kiri let out a whoop as a low wave slapped against their knees. When they reached the deeper swell, she moved with ease, sliding onto her board like she was born doing it. She didn't show off; her strokes were relaxed and rhythmical, clearly competent but not flashy.

"You're already ahead of most beginners," she said over her shoulder, eyeing Pia's balanced form. "Vic must be a good teacher. Or maybe you just take to things quickly. Either way, you don’t paddle like someone who's only been out once."

“That’s because I did a course in Hawaii, Waikiki Beach. I got the hang of it, the basics, anyway, and even bought a board of my own. But I decided to come over here. My plank from Hawaii is being delivered by seafreight. It seems to be taking the round the world route.”

The water was a gentle aquamarine today, touched with that soft golden haze that marked the change of seasons. Offshore, Dan and Vic were already bobbing on the next set, Dan gesticulating about something and Vic turning his head now and then to check Pia’s progress, trying, and failing, to look casual.

Kiri paddled closer. “So tell me more. What kind of life are you hoping to build here in Sydney? Just fun and freedom, or something deeper?”

Pia had strong shoulders, swimmer's shoulders, and a core formed by rowing, but she was still fairly new to surfing. Her progress was based on strength more than efficient technique.

"Kiri, you're asking a deep question. I'm here on a tourist visa. I planned to stay six months, but I’ve met Vic. Now I don't know if I want ever to leave. I haven't told him that yet. It's early days in our relationship. So much can go wrong." The tall blonde looked over at the boys, recalling some truly disastrous past relationships. She sighed, then smiled brightly at Kiri. "My last boyfriend tried to teach me to fear him. But I've got a good feeling about Vic."

Kiri watched Pia with quiet admiration, her raw power was obvious, even if the paddling wasn’t yet second nature. She drifted alongside, letting her board rise and fall with the glassy swell, the rhythm of the sea a third presence in their conversation.

“Six months,” she echoed softly. “That’s not long at all, but... sometimes you don’t need long.”

She followed Pia’s gaze to the boys. Dan had just caught a wave and was hooting like a kid, while Vic wiped out with embarrassing flair, legs flying, board spinning, an exaggerated splash. Even from a distance, it was funny.

“You know,” Kiri said, voice low and thoughtful, “Dan asked me to move in with him after five weeks. I laughed in his face. Said he was insane. But I did it. And here we are, four years later. Married, with a son, Leo. He’s at a playdate today.” She looked back at Pia. “I think when you’ve seen enough wrong, it makes right stand out clearer. Doesn’t mean it’s easy. But it feels different.” She grinned. “Also, Vic hasn’t stopped glancing back since we paddled out. I think you’re in his bones already. Let’s catch a wave together. Nothing big, just something we can laugh through.”

"Yes. I've got a good feeling about Vic. But we haven’t yet been through the fire. I mean, a knock-down, drag-out fight. I did a bad thing recently, which got him in trouble at work, and he easily forgave me. I wish he had been more angry." Pia watched the boys, smiling at their antics. In her mind, memories of an actually fatal relationship played out in snapshots of coercion, terror, and death. She shook her head to clear it.

"Whatever, let's catch a wave!"

They waited for the right swell, then paddled furiously to get the momentum required to catch the peak. The wave rose beneath them like a liquid promise, soft but determined, curling just enough to whisper now.

Kiri popped up onto her board. Pia followed with a wobble, but kept her stance and they began to carve the sparkling water, swooping across the face of the breaker in a brief, glorious formation which would only dissolve into salty chaos once the rising seabed had dragged all the power out of the surf.

For a few Goddess-like, timeless seconds they moved in tandem, two streaks of light and motion, Kiri crouched low and laughing, Pia grinning with that triumphant hell yes gleam in her eye as the board responded to the lean of her hips. The water was cool on her ankles, the sun dazzling through the crest.

Then the moment broke, the wave folding in on itself, the sea flattening them back into splash and foam. Pia tumbled with a startled yelp and surfaced seconds later, sputtering, hair slicked across her eyes, coughing out brine and laughter.
Kiri bobbed up nearby, whooping. “Yes! That was bloody gorgeous! You rode it like a warrior poet!”

Pia’s board floated beside her, its leash tugging gently on her ankle. From farther out, Vic’s voice rang over the water.

“Looked like love at first wipe out!”

Dan added, “I give it a solid eight, only lost half her bikini!”

Pia still had her rash suit on, of course, and she gave them both the British V sign with exaggerated elegance.

Kiri swam closer, grinning. “See? You do belong here. That wave didn’t know what hit it.” Then, more gently, “And you’re right. Real love gets tested. But it doesn’t break. It flexes. Like your knees.” She held out a hand to link their boards. “Ready to go again?”

Pia grasped Kiri's hand, already feeling close affection for the smaller girl. "Let's go, Kiri! I want to do it. I'll get good. I just need more practice"

They paddled out and got ready for the next good swell. When it arrived, Pia drove off hard, popping up early and wobbly, using her toned limbs to control the progression of her swooping path. She laughed with joy, feeling the burn in her muscles, comparing the sensation with her experience of running, rowing and swimming. It was a good run, solid, unspectacular, but satisfying.

Kiri whooped behind her, not even bothering to catch that one, just watching Pia ride it out, her lean body carving a determined path along the wave’s face like she belonged there. It wasn’t elegant yet, not stylish, but it had guts, and guts mattered. Maybe more than grace.

On the shore, Vic stood ankle-deep in the foam, one hand shielding his eyes, watching the whole thing unfold with a slow smile spreading across his face. Dan was beside him, squeezing the seawater from his curls and nodding in appraisal.

“She’s a scrapper,” Dan said, impressed.

Vic didn’t respond at first. Then, almost to himself, “She’s got fire.”

Back out in the lineup, Pia cruised her way to the tail end of the swell, then belly-flopped off the board with an ungainly splash, laughing as she surfaced and pushed her dripping hair back. Her heart pounded with a mix of pride, exhaustion, and something that felt suspiciously like being in the right place.

Kiri paddled over, eyes bright.

“You looked like you were born on that board, Pia. Not a tourist, a local.” She drifted beside her, hands hooked lightly over the edges of her board. “This city’s going to love you. And if it doesn’t want to, you’ll make it.”

Pia didn't know what to say in reply, so she said nothing. Only swam her board back around and headed out for one more try. Pia had lived a lot of her life in the Zen moment, wanting only to survive and transcend the immediate future. She had always thought future dreams to be a Disney concept, a stupid, unrealistic cliché for life. But now for the first time in years, she had got a future dream in her head.

Kiri sensed the shift, the quietness settling over Pia, not a retreat, but a kind of reverence. So she didn’t speak, just gave a nod that said 'go on then', and let her paddle back out alone.

The ocean rolled gently, inviting but unpredictable. Pia’s strokes cut strong and sure through the water, her board steady, her muscles humming with exertion and blood. The sun was high now, gilding every peak, every ripple, casting fragmentary rainbows off the spray. Everything around her, Kiri watching nearby, Vic on the shore, the distant buzz of kids chasing foam along the shallows, fell away.

In the stillness before the next swell, Pia crouched on her board, eyes forward, waiting. She wasn’t trying to win. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She just was, in the moment, letting the ocean take her, no past to dodge and no future to force.

Somewhere deeper than bone, she felt it. A dream.

Not the Disney kind, fairy tale castles and saccharine music. One stitched from days like this. From boards waxed and ready, from laughter beside someone who stays. A future less about escaping, more about becoming.

The wave lifted behind her.

Pia paddled, popped up cleaner this time, almost fluid, and rode.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 32: Lunch Agenda

Everyone gathered on the sand, where regular beachgoers with their kids and coolers now outnumbered the surfers and serious swimmers by 10 to 1. The sun was riding high in a sky dotted with set-ups of puffy cumulus clouds. Pia's Mondrian suit had begun to dry to streaks of salt.

"I'm exhausted. Surfing is officially nearly as tough as rowing. Or croquet," Pia quipped, in her low key English style. "It’s been awesome. Now let's get some lunch. I bet you know all the best places around here."

Victor tossed his board down on the sand with a theatrical grunt and flopped beside it, beads of seawater still sliding down his chest. His curls were drying into sun-streaked chaos, and his cheeks were flushed with a mix of salt, sun, and watching Pia carve through that last wave like she was born to do it.

“Oh yeah,” he said, grinning up at her. “Surfing, rowing, and croquet. The trifecta of brutal endurance sports. I’ve seen grown men cry at a poorly judged mallet angle.”

Dan, towelling off nearby, snorted. “That’s because you cheat. You can’t just kick someone’s ball off the pitch and pretend it was a strategic breeze.”

Kiri, sitting cross-legged and cracking open a flask of chilled water, leant toward Pia with a smile. “You killed it out there. But yes, lunch. My limbs are jelly.”

Vic stretched like a cat, then rose with an easy bounce, brushing sand off his shorts. “There’s a place just up the road. Outdoor tables, good shade, best tuna melts in the Eastern Suburbs. Unless Pia wants to veto me again and demand caviar and champagne.”

Pia’s salt-streaked rash suit clung to her in blocks of black, white, red, blue, and yellow, catching the eye of several kids nearby, who thought she might be a superhero on day off.

Vic leant close and murmured, “You are hungry, right? Or do you just want to show off your new board to the lunchtime crowd?”

"Don't diss croquet!” There was a dangerous light in Pia's eyes. “It's started more feuds and ended more marriages than any sport in history."

Vic raised both hands in surrender, eyes wide with mock alarm. “Alright, alright, peace on the lawns of Hampton Court. I’ve learned not to provoke women holding mallets.”

Dan grinned, slinging his board under one arm. “She’s not kidding. I went to a garden party in Melbourne once. Thought croquet would be a laugh. Ended up with a bruise the shape of Tasmania on my shin and a death glare from an eighty-year-old named Audrey.”

Kiri cackled. “You so deserved that.”

Pia’s dangerous glint hadn’t gone unnoticed by Vic. He gave her a slow once-over, eyes twinkling. “Mental note: never suggest couples croquet. Unless we’re ready to test the strength of our union.” He slid an arm lightly around her waist, and added under his breath, “You really gonna let me show you off in that suit? Because I’m pretty sure half the café will forget their orders when you walk in.”

"That's exactly what I want! I am as beautiful as the moon and as terrible as an army arrayed with banners. Everyone shall look upon me and love me, or die of despair!” Pia beamed. “More seriously, Kiri said she knows the absolute best places for dumplings.” She grinned, “Fun factoid, Japanese gyoza are both fried and steamed at the same time. Let's go somewhere we can get gyoza and seafood.

Vic groaned happily. “Yes, Queen of Salt and Seafoam. I’ll worship at the temple of your gyoza cravings.”

Kiri stood, brushing sand off her dress, eyes dancing. “Okay, I know just the place. It’s tucked away in a laneway off Hall Street. Family-run, Japanese-Korean fusion, barely on the radar unless you’re local. The gyoza are crispy-bottomed perfection, and they do these chilli oil scallops that make grown men weep.”

Dan, who had just pulled on a ratty T-shirt with a faded Noosa Surf Club logo, perked up. “Do they do that cold soba salad with pickled ginger and wasabi mayo?”

“They do,” Kiri confirmed, linking her arm through his.

Vic turned to Pia, lips curving. “You heard the lady. Dumplings and despair. It’s the perfect lunch date. Though I can’t promise not to stare at you. You’re very distracting when you’re victorious and salty. In both senses of the word.” He bent to grab her board, slinging it under one arm. “Come on, Pia. Let’s conquer Coogee one gyoza at a time.”

Pia shaded her head under her usual white cotton bucket hat, with the colourful Marimekko flower print. She pulled on bright pink rubber ballerina flats, and clapped a pair of Bailey Wilson Marita sunglasses in red and brown crystal over her eyes. She simply ignored the growing scratchiness of her drying skinsuit. British, she was made of stern stuff, conditioned by years of summer holidays with the most primitive beach facilities. "Let's go. The champagne's on me, though Vic and Dan can't have any because they're driving. Ha ha ha ha ha!" Her cheerful laugh rang out.

Vic gaped at her, mock-wounded. “Deprived of champagne and mocked for my mallet trauma? Harsh, Pia. Harsh.” Dan patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate. You can sniff the cork while we toast.”

“Sniff the cork!?” Pia snorted with laughter. “Like that doesn’t sound so wrong!” Glittering in her flowery hat and pink flats, she looked glamorously absurd, fresh from the sea like a damp comic book heroine. Even Kiri gave a low whistle.

“You’re basically fashion revenge walking. That outfit’s going to haunt the dreams of every influencer in Coogee.”

Vic slung Pia’s board and his own onto the roof rack with a series of practiced bungee cord tugs, then tapped the bonnet of Ziggy fondly. “You hear that, boy? She’s buying bubbles. Try not to explode en route.”

They piled into the cars, Kiri in the Prado with Dan, Pia and Vic in the increasingly suspect Audi, and pulled out toward the laneways, with the windows down and salt wind chasing them through Sydney’s sunny sprawl. Vic glanced at Pia at a red light, grinning as sunlight flashed off her sunglasses. She had pulled off her hat to let her hair dry in the breeze, and was teasing it into choppy, salt-held peaks, with the help of the vanity mirror in the sun visor.

“I’ve never looked forward to dumplings so much in my life,” he murmured.

Pia smiled serenely. She was about the happiest she'd ever been. It was Saturday lunchtime in the greatest city in the world. She had just conquered the waves, and now her best boyfriend ever was driving her to a garlic laden dumpling spot, where she planned to wow all onlookers, male and female alike, with her skin-tight, salt-streaked surf suit. While swilling a bottle of fizz! She reached out to grip Vic's hand on the automatic selector lever.

Victor’s hand curled around hers instantly, like it was always meant to be there, warm, slightly callused, steady as stone. He glanced down at their linked hands, then across at her, that smile on his lips softening into something quieter. Not just amused, moved. The traffic rumbled. A big rough dog barked from the back of the ute in front of them. Somewhere nearby, a busker’s saxophone filtered through the open window, slow and sultry.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “I reckon this is the best version of Saturday I’ve ever had.”

The light turned green. He drove one-handed, not letting go of hers. Pia's short hair was crusting as the sea water dried. She had once wanted flowing locks to style in mermaid curves, but now her scalp was full of choppy crests, a chaotic blonde seascape to challenge or delight her boyfriend.

"Me too, Vic. Remember this special day, because we want to surpass it, but if we don’t we’ll still always have it anyway."

Victor glanced over again, just briefly, with that special kind of focus men sometimes get when they’re suddenly thunderstruck by a moment. Pia, radiant and ridiculous in her salt-crusted suit, looked like something from a surrealist postcard that had fallen in love with a Coogee Saturday.

“I’ll remember,” he said, voice rougher than before, the words slipping out like truth escaping a locked box. “I’ll bottle this day. And yeah, we’ll top it.” He gave her hand a small squeeze. “But fair warning, it’ll take at least a five-wave combo, a Vespa race, and a whole tower of gyoza. Possibly also a croquet duel.” Then, glancing back to the road: “And if your hair gets any more oceanic, I might start calling you Sea Queen. With all due reverence.”

"Not a problem, Bae."

That unlikely movie magic which sometimes manifests in the real world enabled Vic and Dan to find parking slots within a couple of minutes walk of the dumpling objective.

“Bae,” Vic echoed with a lopsided grin, pulling into the blessedly empty space like it had opened by divine command. “I accept the title. As long as I don’t have to wear a crown in public. Or explain it to Dan.”

Dan, parking half a block ahead, stuck his arm out the window and gave a thumbs-up with the smug pride of a man who thought he had manifested the spot himself. Kiri could be seen unbuckling her seatbelt to jump out with the brisk efficiency of someone who definitely didn’t trust Dan’s reverse parking technique.

Vic cut the engine and turned toward Pia, his hand still in hers.

“You ready to turn heads and slay crustaceans?”

He stepped out into the sunshine, and watched as she emerged from the car like some beach-born rock star: shades, salt-streaks, bold prints, and confidence radiating like heat off city pavement at noon.

The laneway up ahead bustled with locals in post-swim attire, the aromas of garlic, toasted sesame oil, and grilling seafood curling on the breeze.

“I swear,” Vic murmured as Pia opened the café door, “the restaurant should pay you just for walking past.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 33: Dangerous Fun

Pia paused just outside the café. "Eclectic. That's what we are. You definitely could not dress like this in Paris, unless you absolutely planned to." She led them into the restaurant in her role as today's host. It was a five minute wait for a table. Takeaway orders flowed out smoothly, their hot, delicious scent a provocation of appetite for the hungry surfers.

"Kiri, I already know this is going to be amazing,” Pia grinned.”When a place is this busy it's a guarantee of top quality. How did you find it?"

Kiri beamed, brushing a few strands of wind-whipped hair off her cheek. “Maternity cravings,” she said, glancing at Dan like they were sharing a secret joke. “Back when I was pregnant with Leo, I got obsessed with dumplings. I tried every spot from Bondi to Burwood. This one won by a landslide.”

“There are worse things to be obsessed with than dumplings,” Pia said.

Vic leaned against the wall, one foot up, fingers still loosely linked with Pia’s. He gave Kiri a sideways glance under his sun-bleached fringe. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” he murmured, mock-offended. “What kind of locals are you and your high standards, keeping it a secret from your best friend?”

Dan chuckled. “We’re the kind who hoard good food intel and release it only when it’ll make us look cool.”

“It’s okay Vic, we’re here now,” Pia smiled. “You can eat all the dumplings you like.”

Inside, steam fogged the glass display at the front counter, where bamboo baskets piled high with plump dumplings vanished as fast as the servers could restock them. The four of them were eventually shown to a corner table, a bit cramped but cosy, with sunlight slanting in through the slatted blinds. A portable fan whirred nearby.

Vic slid into the seat beside Pia and bumped her shoulder playfully. “I reckon I could eat about forty. Minimum.” He looked around at the others. “Alright, what’s the go? We doing safe bets, or is this the day Pia accidentally orders chicken feet and pretends she meant to?”

"I've eaten weirder stuff than you, Vic.” Pia grinned. “Also, I can read the hidden bits of the menu, the things written in Japanese. D'you fancy some crab brains?" She had learnt to read Japanese menus because it was a vital function. There weren't any crab brains on this menu, though, just regular Chinese, Korean, and Japanese types of dumplings and soups, and snacky side plates, like edamame beans, popcorn chicken, and kimchi.

"How about I order for you, Bae?" She still had the instinct to manipulate her boyfriend in fun ways.

Vic raised an eyebrow, clearly torn between suspicion and amusement. “I mean… that sounds slightly threatening,” he said, eyes narrowing as he leaned in conspiratorially. “But also kind of hot.”

Pia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. Vic let out a mock groan and draped an arm along the back of her chair. “Alright, boss. Order for me. Just no feet, no eyeballs, and nothing that might still be twitching.”

He paused, then added with a smirk, “Unless it’s you.”

Dan choked on his water, and Kiri swatted Vic’s arm. “Jesus, Vic.”

The waiter arrived with a notepad, glancing politely around the table. Pia, already poised and relaxed, flipped casually into fluent charm mode, gesturing in a combination of English and menu kanji references, asking for a mix of xiao long bao, sheng jian bao, spicy wontons, Japanese gyoza, and a few sides. Popcorn chicken, edamame, pickled cucumber. No chicken feet. No twitching. A bottle of prosecco because there wasn’t any champagne.

Vic gave her a low whistle when the waiter walked off. “Okay, okay. You’re dangerously good at that. Who taught you dumpling diplomacy?”

He wasn’t joking. Something about watching Pia in control, stylish and breezy, but also a little intimidating, was making his heart behave irresponsibly. He tugged gently on the rim of her bucket hat.

“You do realise this only makes me want to kiss you more, right?”

"Claim your territory, Bae."

Vic didn’t need telling twice. He shifted in his seat, angled in close, and with one smooth hand at the nape of Pia’s neck, warm, thumb brushing that sensitive spot just under her hairline, he kissed her. Nothing over-the-top. Just a warm, beach-salted, slightly giddy kind of kiss. The kind that made time pause for a few seconds, then tumble forward again with flushed cheeks and a smile.

From across the table, Dan pretended to study the laminated drinks menu like it contained the meaning of life.

Kiri sipped her prosecco and drawled, “God, you two are disgusting. I love it.”

Vic sat back, smug and satisfied, though his thumb lingered lightly along Pia’s shoulder. “Territory claimed,” he said, grinning. “But I reserve the right to reassert my ownership hourly.”

Their food began to arrive, steam rising, vinegar sharp in the air, the unmistakable crackle of freshly fried oil. Vic’s eyes widened. “Okay, that one’s oozing. What is that?”

“Spicy pork wonton soup,” Kiri offered. “Eat it with a spoon, trust me.”

Vic chose gyoza and picked a dumpling up with his chopsticks, wobbling it dangerously. He looked to Pia. “Do I blow on it or just commit and suffer?”

The dumpling sizzled ominously.

"Wait, Vic! You might burn your tongue. This stuff is straight out of the kitchen." Pia had taken a more measured approach, twirling her disposable wooden chopsticks between her palms before she split them. She folded the paper wrapper into a neat little bridge, a 'hashi-oki', which she arranged in Japanese table style. She did this on auto-pilot, because her attention was subtly flicking around the table, to check her guests were enjoying themselves, and had what they needed.

Vic paused mid-lift, dumpling suspended like a live grenade between chopsticks. “I didn’t think this meal would require a WHS briefing, but here we are.”

Kiri reached across to clink her glass lightly against Pia’s. “You’re such a host. I love it.”

Dan, who had already eaten half a gyoza in one bite and looked mildly betrayed, muttered through a full mouth, “Nobody warned me.”

Pia’s movements were elegant, not showy, the kind that came from habit, not display. She poured a little soy sauce into a dish, added a dash of vinegar, swirled it with precision. Vic caught her eye across the rim of his tea cup. She was glowing. Not from makeup or sunlight, though both helped, but from that subtle confidence that came when she was in control of the moment. It made his chest tighten. He touched the paper bridge she’d made. “You always this civilised, or just trying to impress my inner gentleman?” Then he added, leaning in with a spark behind his lazy grin, “Spoiler: he’s not that hard to impress. He mostly likes girls who stop him from setting his mouth on fire.”

"I learnt it when I was hostessing in Tokyo, because I got taken to a lot of different places by my temporary boyfriends." Pia dropped this potential convo bomb calmly, and directed her attention to the dumplings, snatching up 1, 2, 3 with pro-level chopstick technique.
Vic blinked.

Temporary boyfriends...?

A faint static hummed in his ears. He covered it by reaching for his tea, sipping slowly while watching her stack food on her plate like it was an army supply dump.

Kiri raised both brows. “Oh wow! That’s a casual little Hiroshima you just dropped, Pia.”

Dan snorted and whispered to her, “I don’t think that’s how geography works.”

But Vic was still half-hung up on the phrase. Temporary boyfriends. The words bounced around in his brain like loose change in a washing machine. He was fine. Totally fine. Not spiralling at all.

He cleared his throat. “Right. So you’re saying I’m, what? A seasonal hire?” He leaned his forearms on the table, a very thin smile on his face. “Just one of the current roster of boyfriends who get dumpling privileges?”

Pia’s chopsticks snapped up a fourth dumpling with surgical precision.

Vic waited for a moment. Then added quietly, “Or have I made it out of the temp agency?”

Pia set her chopsticks down carefully. "They were just guys who came into the club, Vic. My role as a hostess was to flirt with men. It was just a job, a kind of play-acting. Nothing serious. Nothing like you."

She reached out for Vic's hand, her eyes searching his, wondering how badly she'd blundered. "Think about last night, Bae. Was that play-acting, or rock-hard serious?" Her eyes watered, as she thought about how her casual repartee might have hurt him.

Vic’s heart gave a thud, like it had been knocked sideways and was realigning. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her, her fingers wrapped around his, her voice soft but shaking, her eyes glassy with something that hit him like a gut-punch.

God, she really means this.

All the ridiculous, caveman panic that had flared inside him at temporary boyfriends dissolved, leaving something raw and real, the certainty that he was falling in love with a woman who scared him a bit, because she was smarter, cooler, tougher than anyone he’d dated before, and yet somehow vulnerable right now, just for him.

He squeezed her hand gently.

“Nah, Pia,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Last night wasn’t play-acting.”

He let that sit for a second. Then leaned in, lips brushing her ear with a cheeky whisper. “That was me being rock-hard serious. In multiple senses.”

Kiri groaned. “Oh my god, Vic!”

Dan shoved a dumpling in his mouth to stifle a dirty laugh.

Vic sat back, still holding Pia’s hand. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, soft and steady. “You didn’t hurt me. Just startled me. But I get it now. Where the real you lives.”

Pia felt her heart open. Her former career as an undercover detective made it second nature to present a front while concealing her true identity and feelings. The Japanese idea of 'tatemae' versus 'honne' was a useful conceptualisation. But it wouldn't do in this civilian life.

*I'm not that girl any more,* she thought. *I'm just me. I'm going to act with authentic freedom. And style.*

Without releasing Vic's hand she plucked up a gyoza, held it between her pursed lips, and offered herself for a kiss where he could take the fragrant morsel right out of her mouth.

Vic’s breath caught.

Holy hell.

The heat that lit behind his ribs wasn’t just desire, it was that wild, stunned awe you get when someone you care about suddenly steps into the light and lets you see them whole. Pia, effortless, stylish, and entirely herself, was offering him something deeper than the dumpling. It was trust, flirtation, and declaration all at once.

He didn’t hesitate.

Leaning in, hand still wrapped around hers, he kissed her. Soft lips, then the gyoza, then her lips again, lingering just a moment longer. The flavours, ginger, garlic, chili oil, blurred into heat and heartbeat. He pulled back, just enough to meet her eyes.

“God, you’re dangerous,” he murmured, a little dazed. “And I hope you never stop.”

Kiri had buried her face in her hands, peeking through her fingers. “I swear if you two keep being sexy around my dumplings, I’m charging you a finder’s fee.”

Dan nodded solemnly. “I didn’t know a person could feel this single while married.”

Vic didn’t care. His whole focus was on Pia, her hand in his, her eyes shining, her walls down.

She was being real with him.

And he was all in.

"I promise only to be dangerous in a fun way,” Pia said. “Like the ocean, a rogue wave you can ride or wipe out on but it's your skill and the Zen moment, not malice. I'll never do you wrong deliberately, Victor."

Pia's use of Vic's full name emphasised her serious feelings. She was remembering her last serious boyfriend, a relationship that became so disastrous, it ended with violent sexual assault and three rounds of .380 Colt ACP.

Those bullets sent Kevin to the mortuary and Pia to a purgatory of self-recrimination, which she could only shed with Vic's unknowing help. She hadn’t yet told Vic about this part of her violent past. She was afraid to. Afraid she might scare him away, revolt him, and lose him, who was becoming the focus of her hope. Pia stroked Vic's face, staring intently into his eyes, rapt in the moment, when she was still hiding the whole story. Hoping he never had to hear all of her past. Knowing if she was completely honest, she must tell him. Fearing the day she unburdened herself to him. Terrified that in that fraught moment she would lose the centre of her new world. For now, Pia clung to happiness with her arm around Vic's neck.

Vic rested his forehead against hers, his eyes soft, his smile a quiet thing, gentler than usual. “That’s all I want, Pia,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Dangerous fun sounds perfect.”

He didn’t know what it was, not exactly, but something had shifted. He could feel it in the way her hand lingered on his cheek like she was memorising him, in the way her eyes searched his, as though trying to anchor herself. She wasn’t just flirting. She was reaching out from somewhere deeper, where she didn’t let many people go. And that made his chest tighten again, that strange ache of wanting to protect her, without knowing what the danger was.

He ruffled her choppy blonde hair and kissed her salty forehead, slow and deliberate. “I don’t care about your past,” he murmured into her skin. “Only that you’re here with me now.” He pulled back to give her room to smile or cry, to crack a joke if she needed to deflect. He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just held her close, letting her breathe.

Across the table, Kiri tapped Dan’s wrist. “We should grab dessert down the street. That mochi bar?”

Dan got the hint. “Yeah. Let the lovebirds marinate. Or just get a room.”

Kiri winked. “Text me when you’re done being smitten.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 34: Afternoon Delight

Vic barely noticed them go. He was tracing light circles with his thumb on Pia’s arm, trying to memorise her expression in this exact moment.

“You’re my rogue wave, Pia,” he said at last, voice low. “And I’m not afraid of falling into you.”

"Are there Love Hotels in Sydney? You know what a Love Hotel is? You can get a room for two hours," Pia asked eagerly, her erotic furnace stoked by the morning's exercise, a great lunch, half a bottle of prosecco, and her current emotional turmoil, all piled on the peak of her hormonal cycle.

Vic’s eyes popped with surprise. He felt wildly turned on. “I mean… I don’t know, but I suddenly feel like it’s my civic duty to find out.”

He laughed softly, but it sounded rough-edged, hungry. Pia’s eyes had that molten-gold look, like a storm just behind the horizon, and it hit him with a rush. The way she held herself, deliberate, composed, but trembling at the edges, told him this wasn’t just heat. It was an escape hatch, a lifeline, a plea for intimacy that went deeper than sex. He brushed his thumb across her lower lip. “Or we could just grab a room at a hotel somewhere close. Doesn’t need to be boutique, with themed furniture. Just needs a door that locks, and a bed I can kiss you into.”

He pulled his phone out, Googling with one hand while his other cradled the small of her back. “Do you want glamour, or no-frills and fast access?” He paused, glanced at her sidelong with a teasing glint. “Also, uh, do I need to swing past my place for anything? Or are we going straight from dumplings to debauchery?”

Pia flipped into detective mode. She didn't know where Vic lived. This could be her chance to scope it out, discover some background info, and assess the traces of his last girlfriend, as well as make a mess of his bed.

"Have you got condoms at home? And lube? Or we can swing by a chemist on the way."

Vic looked up from his phone, caught between awe and hilarity. “Wow. Straight to logistics. You really are a woman after my own heart.”

He tucked the phone away and gave her a slow, wicked smile. “Yes. I’ve got condoms. Yes, I’ve got lube. Yes, my sheets are clean. No, Emma doesn’t have a toothbrush there anymore.” Then, more gently, almost shyly, he added, “You want to come over?” His voice had lost its flirty bravado for a second, revealing something softer underneath. Hopeful. Vulnerable. “I mean, it’s not super glam. Bit of a beach-bachelor vibe. But it’s mine. And I’d really like you in it.” He slipped some notes under the soy dish to cover lunch, then stood and offered her his hand, grinning now. “Come on. Let’s make a mess of my place.”

Pia looked stony-faced when Vic put down cash for lunch.

"This was going to be my treat, Vic." She took the banknotes and shoved them back to him. Pia still had dollars in her purse left over from her recent computer crime caper. She used them now to cover the bill and leave a generous tip. "No arguments. Now get me back to yours and naked, stat."

Vic opened his mouth like he might protest, but then caught the flash in Pia’s eyes. Cool, controlled, and absolutely in charge. He pocketed the returned cash with a sheepish grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

As they stepped out into the warmth and salt of the Sydney afternoon, he slung his arm low around her waist, guiding her with urgency toward his rattly old Audi. The sky was wide open above them, the sun beating down like a dare. Vic only had one thought in his head, and it had nothing to do with the weather.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 35: Crime Scene Investigation

Vic lay sprawled across the rumpled bed, one arm thrown up over his eyes, the other wide-flung, resting palm-up, like he’d been stunned by beauty. His clothes were scattered around the floor. Pia’s plastic ballerina flats had landed in opposite corners of the living room. Her skinsuit was flung over the back of the sofa. The sheets were tangled, the air heavy with heat and skin and eucalyptus drifting through the open window.

Pia was moving quietly, her bare feet soundless on wooden boards. The floor creaked a little under her weight, not loud, but enough for her to mark it. Habit. The bathroom door opened with an old hinge squeak.

*Needs a drop of 3-in-1*

She wandered back into the lounge, finding Ikea Billy shelves lined with battered surf mags, old Lonely Planets,and dog-eared novels. A photo of Vic and Dan as teens, grinning beside a rusty Holden. No sign of Emma. Nothing visible, anyway. But Pia wasn’t just looking for physical clues. She was detecting absence. There were gaps in the books that Romantasy novels might have filled. A dent in the carpet where a standard lamp probably stood. An empty shelf in the bathroom cabinet, no doubt once crowded with cosmetics.

Her eyes scanned the kitchen counter. A bowl of peaches and two overripe bananas. An old envelope used as scrap paper, with Vic’s handwriting scrawled as badly as if he’d written it left-handed -- Buy toothpaste. Pia = peach. A tiny heart drawn like an afterthought --

She didn’t smile. Not exactly. Her expression flickered with something more like calculation. *This could be real,* her heart whispered. *This man could love me.* But her brain told her, *Don’t trust comfort. Search for patterns. Love needs to be proved sustainable.*

She leant against the kitchen counter and pressed her fingers to her lips. Her heartbeat was still slightly fast. From the sex. From the quiet. From the fear that she might have started she couldn’t control, and maybe didn’t want to.
*You can’t interrogate your way into a good future, girl, * she told herself. *Not if you want to be free.*

Vic called lazily from the bedroom, “You okay, babe?”

"I'm peachy, Bae."

When she was younger, Pia would have elaborated on this excuse, saying she wanted a glass of water or something. But she had learnt the value of saying the minimum. Now she left the words naked in the air, while she thought about synchronicity.

The Japanese word for peach was 'momo', which was the name of the dumpling place where they ate lunch. 'Momo' also meant 'thigh'. 'Futomomo' literally meant 'fat thigh', a word used colloquially to describe beautiful young women’s thighs. Pia's thighs were beautiful if you liked your girls toned and hairy. There were certain aspects of her life she would not surrender to the Patriarchy.

Fine art photos of expensive, soft-skinned Japanese peaches floated through Pia's mind, reminding her of luscious female buttocks. *Men's arses are so thin and muscly,* she thought. *So very... A lovely handful. To grab onto.*

"Vic?” She said suddenly. “I forgot that Renée invited us for dinner tonight, and I accepted on your behalf. I need to buy some chocolates on the way back." It wasn’t presented as a challenge, though it actually was. The sudden need to change into more formal clothes. Perhaps bring an overnight bag. Who was Renée anyway? The name sounded French the way Pia pronounced it.

Vic stretched like a lazy cat, the sheet slipping lower over his hip, and gave a slow, contented sigh. His muscles were soft from heat and exertion, brain still fizzing from Pia's kiss marks and momentum. But when she said, ‘Renée invited us for dinner’, his eyes opened. Blinked once. He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face. “Wait, the Renée who's your French neighbour? That Renée? Like, tonight?”

His tone wasn’t annoyed, just suddenly trying to shift gears from postcoital bliss to grown-up logistics. A challenge had been laid, and Vic wasn’t dumb enough to miss it. He stood and padded out toward the kitchen, the sheet slung casually around him like a toga, catching Pia wrapped in thought as she leant against the counter, deliciously nude.

He took her in, the storm behind her eyes, the casually provocative stance disguising analytical tension. The electric space she held, half raw instinct, half strategy. Vic ran a hand through his hair, still damp. “Alright. No worries. Chocolates. We can stop somewhere on the way.” He leaned in, kissed her shoulder. “Do I need to wear a shirt with buttons? Is Renée the scary French auntie type, or like… your lesbian ex from Paris you forgot to warn me about?”

He was teasing, but his gaze lingered, reading her, trying to see if there was more under the surface. He felt the shift. Something had changed, and he wanted to stay on her frequency. “Tell me what you need, Pia,” he said quietly. “I’ll adapt.” He wondered if Pia would trust him with a deeper sliver of truth, or keep her mystery alive.

Pia levelled her gaze at Vic, to project honesty and truth.

"Yes, Renée's the next door neighbour I told you about. The one with the cognac. About 40-ish. She gives that cool auntie vibe, not scary at all. Well, maybe a bit for a boyfriend she wants to evaluate. But you'll be fine, Vic. Jeans and a button down shirt are okay if they're clean. Bring an overnight bag. You'll want to stay over with me, because we'll be drinking."

Pia withheld the secret of her bisexuality, thinking it irrelevant to the current scene. She didn't feel that kind of attraction to Renée anyway.

Vic nodded, letting the information slot into place like puzzle pieces; next door neighbour, cool auntie vibe, possible boyfriend-evaluator. Got it. He didn't feel threatened. Not exactly. But the bit about drinking and the overnight bag sent a thrill through him, low in the gut. *Staying over again. At her place. In her space. In her life?* He could feel it happening; whatever the thing growing between them was, it was accelerating. And he liked it.

“You want me to pass this mysterious neighbour’s test, huh?” he said lightly, stepping in to nuzzle her neck. “Because I can do charming. I can do clean jeans. I can even bring a bottle of wine if you let me raid your stash.”

“Never bring wine to a French woman’s dinner party. It’s about as classic an error as starting a land war in Asia.”

He pressed a kiss just below her ear, softer now. “Okay, no wine. I’ll pack an overnight bag. But I’ve got one condition.” He leaned back enough to meet her eyes again, serious but smiling. “Tomorrow morning, I make you coffee in your kitchen. Real, greasy, post-party coffee. And you let me look through your bookshelves while you roll around in your sheets.” He brushed her fringe back from her face. “Deal?”

A slow, lazy smile spread across Pia's face. "That sounds. Fuccing great!"

Vision moment over, she snapped into action, swiping up her clothes to make herself decent for a click+collect pickup of luxury chocolates on the way home. She would use the situation as an excuse to rifle Vic's drawers and make up an overnight bag for him.

Vic watched, faintly awed, as Pia transformed from sensual feline to efficient whirlwind in under five seconds. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, grinning. “How do you make chaos look so composed?” She was already into her Mondrian skin suit, swiping the zip closed, and tidying her hair with a flick of her fingers that said mission mode: engaged.

“Click and collect in thirty-five,” she murmured, skimming her phone. “We need to go.”

She vanished into his bedroom and began to pillage his meagre wardrobe, picking items with surgical directness. A soft white tee-shirt, the least-wrinkled button-up shirt with a collar, navy pleat-front chinos, a belt, spare boxers, socks. Toothbrush. Aftershave. She moved with purpose, folding items neatly into a weekend bag that Vic hadn't touched since he went to Manly Beach last summer.

“Should I be concerned,” he said, as he leant against the doorframe, “that you now know the full layout of my underwear drawer?”

Pia didn’t even pause. “Concerned? No. Impressed.”

Vic let out a low whistle. “If this is what I get every time I make you come, I’m gonna need to buy more clothes.”

"Every time you make me come?” She sniggered. “Dangerous words, Mr Davern. One woman can beat any 10 men on the ultimate battleground between the sexes. At least, maybe I can try it." She dead-panned. "Now hurry up and get dressed. I must be home in time to do full party make-up."

Bag zipped, hair fixed, Pia was fire and grace again, ready to hit the road with military precision and movie star flair.

Vic caught her wrist as she passed him. “You really are great, Pia.”

His voice was soft this time. No tease. Just the truth, laid gently in the space between them.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 36: A Salon with Renée

The sun had begun its golden descent over the rooftops of Surry Hills, glazing the cream façades of the Victorian townhouses with a warm blush. Pia’s apartment caught some strong light. It was west-facing, breezy, and flickering with her laundry pegged out to dry on the balcony that hung over the communal gardens. Click-and-collect chocolates, expensive, ganache-filled squares in a blue-linen box lined with gold foil, sat ready on the kitchen counter.

Vic was buttoning his shirt with mild confusion. “Does this actually match my chinos, or am I just colourblind from the sun?” He glanced at Pia in the mirror. She was across the room, assembling a full face with a precision that suggested sniper training; eyeliner sharp enough to cut a diamond, cheekbones popping, lips soft and plush like the Japanese peaches she'd been daydreaming about earlier. Her pixie cut was artfully messy, tousled with sea salt spray and just the right amount of hold. Her dress was a classic little black number, square neck, half-sleeve, fitted bodice and a knee-length sheath skirt. Fully lined.

She looked like a woman who was in total control of her image, even while straddling a fault line.

Pia anointed her pulse points with unisex Creed Erolfa, her favourite scent, and waited for the alcohol to evaporate and bond the fragrance to her skin. She checked the look of her earrings, white gold crescent moons filled with sparkling diamonds, to honour the Goddess. Pia's spiritual feelings were confused and might not be truly deep, but she still had them.

"You carry the choccies, Vic. I'll introduce you. Don't be nervous." Ensuring that Vic would be nervous. "Try to remember your schoolboy French, it will please her however bad it is. What's the time?" Pia could easily have referred to her tiny silver cocktail wristwatch, but it was good to command her boyfriend. She added a princess necklace of pearls to her assemblage of jewellery.

Vic smoothed his shirt down, still half-suspecting he’d got the buttons misaligned. “It’s… half six,” he said, glancing at the wall clock instead of Pia’s wrist. He’d learned long ago that pointing out a girl’s illogicality was a bad mistake. He picked up the blue-linen chocolate box reverently. “This looks like it should be kept in a wine fridge. Is it bribery or a tribute?”

“Both.”

Vic stood by the open window a moment, letting the breeze wash over him. Pia really did look breathtaking, like a character in a dream involving stolen yachts and underground Tokyo jazz clubs. His own reflection looked surprisingly decent too; sun-warmed skin, clean-shaven jaw, hair pushed back and tousled with a bit of the sea-salt spray Pia had chucked at him earlier. No board shorts tonight. Navy chinos and a light blue shirt, creased mostly along the fold lines.

His French was rusty. Somewhere between Year Nine oral exam and trying to order beer in Tahiti.

“You think she’ll like me?” he asked, adjusting the box under one arm. “Or at least not call me ‘the colonial’ under her breath?”

There was a light tension in his posture. He knew this wasn’t just dinner. It was an audition. Renée wasn’t just the neighbour. She was a woman of influence in Pia’s new world, and maybe, an oracle. Vic could perform. But he didn’t always know his lines.

"Renée is important to me, of course, Vic. A connection to my French side, and a sounding board, a wise aunt. But I will make my own decisions about my men."

Pia reflected briefly that her romantic decisions had been very bad in the past 18 months. One boyfriend in prison, another in a crematorium urn, and two more who were lucky that they were just confused as to where it all went wrong. She also had suffered physical and psychic wounds. She frowned briefly.

Vic caught the shadow as it crossed her face, a flicker of something heavy behind the eyeliner and sea-salt poise. He didn’t press. He just stepped closer and nudged her elbow with the back of his hand.

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering with a woman’s decision-making process,” he said lightly. “Especially not one who can shoot straighter than I can surf.”

He dipped his head slightly to meet her gaze. “But, just so you know, I’m not here to impress your wise aunt. I’m here because you opened the door.”

Then, with a little smirk: “And because I was promised wine and philosophical debate in an accent that makes everyone sound slightly drunk.”

Pia threw her head back and laughed. The low sunlight caught her earrings, throwing tiny sparks across the earth tone walls.

The sounds of Surry Hills trickled into the room, distant music, someone revving a scooter, the clang of a tram on the main road line. Vic felt the edge of nerves again, but also that hum of anticipation, like when you were paddling out past the breakers, waiting for the next wave to rise beneath you.

“Shall we?” he asked, holding the door open with exaggerated gallantry.

Pia made a last adjustment of her cocktail dress, checked her make-up and jewellery, and stepped into her strappy black sandals.

"Anyway, it's not so serious, is it, Vic? It's not like we're planning to get married," she threw off lightly, completely controlling her features as she scanned Vic's face in the hallway mirror. "Then you would have to deal with my parents."

Vic laughed, instinctively, with warmth, but there was a slight pause as her words settled.

“Right,” he said, adjusting his grip on the chocolate box, as if it were suddenly a bit heavier. “No marriage. Just a charming evening with a wise French witch and her salon of existentialist wine drinkers. Casual.” He smiled at her in the mirror, but his eyes flicked to hers a little too quickly.

Not serious. Not planning to get married.

Of course not. They’d only slept together a couple of times. Holiday fun. Rebound sex. They were just figuring things out. Still, something in his chest gave a little creak, like the lines of a boat shifting at its moorings. He shook it off.

“Your parents, huh? Let me guess. Your mum terrifies people into civility and your dad smokes in brooding silence while judging everyone’s cheese?” A glint of humour returned to his face. “Or is it the other way around?”

"Mummy and Daddy are half the world away, Vic. You're safe enough, because I haven't told them about you. Yet. Let's approach this party with light hearts. I'll try not to talk too much in French." She opened the door and stepped out. Renée's apartment was next door, an absurdly short distance to travel. Suddenly Pia stopped to check her watch.

"Oh dear. We're on time. Let's go back and wait five minutes." She tried to hustle her beau back through the door of her own flat.

Vic chuckled, letting himself be herded like a gentleman sheep.

“Oh no!” he said, grinning as he backed into the doorway. “We wouldn’t want to offend the salon by being punctual. Next thing you know, I’ll be offering to do the dishes and the Revolution will collapse.”

He leant against the wall just inside Pia’s flat, tilting his head toward her. “You haven’t told your parents about me?” He said it teasingly, but there was something behind the tone, curious, gentle, maybe a bit wistful. Then, shifting gears with a dramatic whisper, “Do you think she’ll have a test for me? Like, I don’t know, ask me to quote from Camus? Or pair wine with obscure jazz records?” He tapped the box of chocolates lightly. “What’s the etiquette if she tries to read my aura?”

"I don't know what Renée will do but it will be interesting to find out. I won't let her tease you too much, Bae. Besides, she's going to be charmed by your male beauty. Perhaps we will play cards. If that happens, don't make any serious bets. Remember the saying, ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in Love.’ It works the other way round, as well.” Pia smiled and massaged Vic's upper arms to calm him. "I'm glad now I had my toenails done in taupe, to match my fingers. Don't they look nice in these sandals?

Vic looked down obediently, like a man freshly converted to the Church of Pedicure Appreciation.

“They look impeccable,” he said with mock reverence, then added more softly, “Like something from a Bond film, and I’d be the henchman who switches sides halfway through because I’ve fallen in love with the heroine.” He slid his hands up her arms, just enough to brush the silk sleeves of her dress, and looked at her with a kind of playful open admiration that wasn’t joking at all.

“I like it when you say things like that,” he murmured. “When you care how you look. Not because you need to. Just because it’s your power move.” Then, more lightly: “And no serious bets. Got it. I’ll try not to gamble away my surfboard or my heart.” A pause. “Too late on one of those, actually.”

Pia heard Vic's line. He tried to make it throwaway but a surfie as dedicated as this boy couldn't be more serious about his plank, so it was his heart he was gambling. And Pia was gambling too. She used to tell her men not to fall for her, because she was dangerous to love. And she was right. Hearts were broken, hers included. Now she was gambling again, that she might have found her guy. Gambling that she might be able to commit fully, finally, forever, to a good man. Her face was frozen in a half smile as she searched deep in Vic's eyes, inside her own heart. Wondering how she could tell for sure. Wondering what he would think if he knew the full truth of her past.

The seconds ticked away. Pia looked at her watch.

"It's time to go."

Vic didn’t speak. He just nodded, quietly, solemnly, as if he too had felt the shift in the air. The way her eyes locked with his, something unreadable flickering behind them. He didn’t push or press. He just let it hang there, that almost-smile of hers, like a key hovering above a lock. He offered his arm with a faint flourish. “Mademoiselle Reese, shall we make our scandalous entrance?”

The hallway was warm with lamp light and the low hum of the lives in other apartments. The chocolate box nestled under his arm. Her perfume, oceanic and crisp, lingered in the small space between them. Just like that, they stepped out together, crossing the absurdly short distance to Renée’s door, gambling everything on a polite knock.

The door swung open with an almost theatrical flourish.

Renée stood framed in a waft of orange blossom and woodsmoke, one hand resting lightly on the door jamb. She was statuesque, her silver threaded auburn hair swept up into a loose twist, pinned with what looked like a carved bone hair stick. The indigo silk of her tunic dress shimmered like a river at night, and her earrings, long brass spirals, swayed as she smiled.

“Ah. Voilà, les amoureux,” she purred, her voice touched with Provence and Marlborough Street. “You are precisely fashionably late. I admire your nerve.”

Her eyes travelled from Pia, one raised brow of silent appraisal and warm recognition, to Vic, whom she considered with a feline slowness. “And this must be Victor.”

Vic handed her the chocolate box like it was an offering to the gods. “For you,” he said, smiling in a way that was mostly genuine and only a little bit terrified.

“Charmant. Merci beaucoup.” Renée took it with the grace of a priestess receiving sacred offerings. “Come in, both of you. Everyone is here. We have Crémant de Loire and some amusing opinions about literature to get through before supper.”

The scent of garlic, butter, and something faintly nutty curled from the kitchen. The apartment was low-lit and atmospheric, cushions thrown across antique settees, shelves groaning under paperbacks and curios. From within, the murmur of voices and clink of glasses suggested a lively group already mid-discussion.

Renée turned briefly over her shoulder. “Claude! Archer! Camille! Les jeunes gens sont arrivés!”

She ushered them in with a flourish of her hand. “Leave your coats, your inhibitions, and your dull conversation at the door.”

Vic leaned toward Pia, sotto voce: “I think I’m about to get spiritually undressed.”

"Nothing will go wrong if you just be yourself, Vic. I will talk in French a bit. Please don't mind it. I can't help but want to use my mother's tongue."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 37: Repartee and Persiflage

Pia advanced elegantly, to make her best entrance, whoever was within. There were three other guests; two older men and a young woman of about Pia's age. Their accents were French and Australian.

The room tilted subtly as Pia entered. Her presence recalibrated the atmosphere. Conversations softened, eyes turned. Her voice, British and polished, carried the soft power of decades of James Bond and Merchant Ivory films, and the BBC World Service.

“Good evening, everyone, I’m Olympe.”

Claude, lounging by the sideboard in a rust velvet blazer, yellow trousers and loosely tied paisley cravat, straightened with a delighted twinkle. “Olympe? Comme Olympe de Gouges? How marvellous. And this,” he gave Vic an up and down sweep of his eyes, “Must be the Australian offering.”

Archer chuckled from a leather wingback by the window. He was in his sixties, tan and lean, with silver hair swept back like a newsreader from the nineteen seventies, wearing jeans, a white shirt and a green tweed waistcoat. “You brought a bloke! Brave woman.”

“I’m Victor,” Vic said, giving a sheepish smile. “But I answer to most things if the wine’s good.”

Camille looked up from her glass of something golden. She had dark, sculpted brows and a cap sleeve linen midi dress the colour of terracotta clay. Her expression was unreadable, partway between curiosity and polite disinterest.

“Enchantée,” she said crisply.

Renée swept between them, a glass of Crémant in each hand. “Let us not delay. We toast first, we judge later.”

She handed one to Pia and one to Vic, eyes twinkling. “To risk, romance, and the art of reinvention.”

Vic raised his glass. “I’ve always preferred risky romance to safe accounting.”

Claude sighed theatrically. “Mon dieu, il est charmant. I shall never recover.”

Renée led Pia toward the settee with Camille. “Olympe darling, sit. Camille is from Lyon, and still recovering from the disappointment of Australian tomatoes.”

Vic, meanwhile, found himself swept toward the drinks cabinet by Archer, who muttered, “Better brace yourself, mate. They’ve all got opinions. And Renée? She’s got strategies.”

"Camille? It is my mother's name.” Pia swapped into fluent French, though a sudden impulse of deviltry made her choose to speak with a British accent, a trick which had sometimes been useful as disguise, and sometimes a way of charming people. "Lyon is a lovely city. I have been there once only. You must have a good reason to leave and travel so far away."

Camille looked up with sharper interest now, the corners of her mouth curling into the suggestion of a smile, not quite friendly, not quite hostile. She responded in French, her tone articulate but dry, her Lyonnais accent softening the consonants:
« Ma raison, c’était l’ennui. Lyon est belle, mais elle ne bouge pas. Je voulais… autre chose. »

She tilted her head slightly, studying Pia’s British inflection with a flicker of amusement. « Et vous, Olympe? Vous avez fui ou cherché? »

Renée, passing behind them with a tray of olives and fig toasts, interjected before Pia could answer. « Toutes les deux, sans doute, » she said lightly, setting the tray on the low table. « Fuir et chercher, c’est le sport des femmes intelligentes.” »

Claude raised his glass. « À toutes les fugueuses élégantes!” »

From across the room, Vic glanced over toward Pia, caught a few of the French phrases, and gave a helpless little shrug to Archer. “Am I being praised or recruited into a resistance cell?” he whispered.

Archer, already halfway into his second drink, clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re doing fine, mate. When in doubt, nod wisely and refill their glasses.”

Pia wondered if Camille suspected her British accented French was false. It was only a deception in the sense that Pia could speak French as well as any Parisienne. To admit to a deception would confirm it, though, so she pressed on regardless.

“I like to think of my Australian adventure as an escape rather than running away. It seems more proactive.” She tried to change the subject. “Is your dress linen, Camille? I love the colour.”

Camille’s eyes narrowed a millimetre, just enough for Pia to clock it, but not enough to be rude. She clearly suspected something about the accent, though whether she was more intrigued or affronted remained unclear. Still, Pia’s compliment slid in with perfect timing.

« Oui, c’est du lin, » Camille replied, then switched easily to English, her voice cool and level. “From a boutique in Marseille. The dye is volcanic clay. Very… grounded.” She took a small sip of her drink, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Escape and running away. Aren’t they the same, in the end? One just has better shoes.”

Claude gave a delighted gasp from his perch near the record player. « Camille, tu es cruelle, mais stylée. »

Renée, settling into an armchair with the ease of someone who ruled from upholstery, smiled over the rim of her glass. “Ah, good. The younger women are circling each other like fencing students. I was afraid we’d get through this evening without drama.”

Vic, catching Pia’s eye across the room, raised his glass in a silent, amused toast. He was already halfway through decoding Camille as ‘the sleek French cousin in a noir film who maybe poisons people for money,’ but Pia was holding her own. In fact, she was glowing. When even slightly provoked, she lit up like a match struck in a wine cellar.

Renée reached for a piece of fig toast. “Olympe, tell us something about Sydney through fresh eyes. What do you see that we natives have forgotten to notice?”

“Anyone can run away except a prisoner, but to escape, you must free yourself,” Pia replied in French, hardly tasting her drink as she formulated her repartee. She continued in English. "That’s the important difference. I won't argue about the quality of footwear, though I'd rather never go somewhere I didn't need a lot of expensive shoes. However I've noticed that many Sydney-siders walk about the place in cheap sandals called flip-flops, which they name thongs. That means something else where I’m from. I don't wear them." She deliberately left it open to interpretation, whether she meant that she wouldn't wear the cheap beach sandals, or the expensive women's underwear. She glanced at Vic, to see if he was enjoying himself.

Vic caught the glance and nearly choked on his wine. As far as he knew, Pia didn’t wear thongs. At least he’d never seen them on her or her washing line. He stifled a laugh with a cough into his fist, shaking his head slightly as if to say I heard that, eyes gleaming. His grin was boyish, conspiratorial, like someone who’d just been slipped a love note under the table in a deadly serious exam.

Camille’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a noticeable silence before she replied. Perhaps calculating whether she’d been outflanked. Eventually she just murmured, “Chic et provocatrice,” and picked up an olive like it was a chess piece.

Claude broke the tension with a bark of delighted laughter. “Mais j’adore cette fille! Renée, if I ever host another dinner in Paris, I must steal her.”

Renée chuckled, pleased. “You’ll have to fight Sydney for her. And Victor, I imagine.”

She turned her keen gaze to him. “And you, mon cher garçon, what are your impressions of Sydney through her eyes? Is it all still golden light and mystery?”

Vic blinked. “Uh, well. Golden light, definitely. Mystery?” He looked at Pia again, warm and sure. “Yeah. But the good kind. The kind that keeps you leaning forward to find out what’s going to happen next.”

Archer muttered, “Smooth operator,” into his wineglass.

“Isn’t he?” Renée replied, watching Pia’s reaction now with a new flicker of curiosity. “Very charming. Not just beautiful.”

Camille offered a small, ambiguous smile. “We’ll see.”

Pia smiled as broad as the sun at Vic. Now her hostess club instincts told her to shift her attention to another guest. She used the excuse of taking a snack to turn towards Claude. She spoke in French again, keeping up her British accent.

« Ça fait si longtemps que je ne suis pas allé à Paris que j'aimerais bien y retourner. Étez-vous là pour les Jeux olympiques, Claude ? J'ai regardé la cérémonie d'ouverture à la télé. Je me suis dit : « Après le déluge, quoi ? » Mais ca était très courageux et très français. J'ai eu tellement de peine pour tout le monde.” »

Claude gave a theatrical groan, pressing one manicured hand to his chest as if Pia’s question had opened an old wound. « Ma chère Olympe, j’étais là. Hélas. And let me tell you, never have I seen such magnificent chaos in formalwear. » He plucked a fig toast from the tray with two fingers, as if the recalled trauma required nourishment. « Il a plu sur les dignitaires, les danseurs ont glissé sur les péniches, et Macron, » he rolled his eyes, “ « Macron a souri comme s'il avait tout planifié, naturellement. Mais oui. Courageux. Et Français. Nous aimons crier victoire au milieu d'une catastrophe. » Switching easily into accented English now for Vic’s benefit, he added, “I wore cream linen. It was soaked through by the first firework. I looked like a deflated éclair.”

Renée, sipping her wine, gave a sly nod. “You always look like a deflated éclair, darling. It’s your signature style.”

Claude waved her off with a ring-laden hand. “But it was beautiful, despite everything. Like all our best ideas, fragile et prétentieux.”

Camille raised an eyebrow. “Et inévitablement photographié.”

Vic, ever the outsider but comfortable in his lane, leaned toward Archer. “This is like watching the Eurovision final hosted by philosophers.”

Archer smirked. “It’ll get weirder. Just wait till someone brings up God or Gérard Depardieu.”

Renée turned once more toward Pia, her voice light but edged. “And you, my dear, if you were to host your own opening ceremony, what would it show? What would your anthem be?”

"Goddess, that's a question I think I should delegate. Vic, what's your idea about it? You've heard me playing piano, did you find an anthem there?" A clever way to give her boyfriend an active role in the persiflage while keeping herself in the frame.

Vic blinked, caught mid-sip, and slowly lowered his glass, a small smile spreading across his face. Pia had just tossed him the conversational conch, and everyone was looking now, a moment of gentle tension stretching as if to say: Your move, surfer boy.

“Well…” he began, pausing just long enough to give it the weight of thought, “I did hear her playing the other day. Something classical, moody, very noir, like a figure standing in the rain at the end of a pier. And next she sang a love song.” A ripple of interest moved through the group. Vic glanced at Pia deliberately, his voice gentle. “If I had to pick an anthem for her? I think it’d be… a piano solo that starts off elegantly, builds into a storm, and ends with a single clear note, like the beam of a lighthouse.”

Claude clutched his heart. “Mon dieu. He’s an artist.”

Camille’s eyes narrowed just slightly, recalculating.

Renée was still watching Vic, but now her gaze flicked back to Pia, amused behind her lashes. “Very poetic. And accurate, I suspect.” She raised her glass once more. “To anthems of our own making.”

Vic touched his glass to Pia’s. “To yours.”

Pia smiled, and drank the toast. "You make me wish I could write music, not just read it. At any rate, I can go on Monday to buy some more, and that will be something." She turned to Archer and touched his sleeve. "Another thing I don't understand about Australia is Australian Rules Football, Archer. It seems like a mash-up of rugby and basketball, played in very small, tight uniforms. How did it come to be invented?"

Archer barked out a laugh, the kind that came with a lifetime of sunny beer gardens and impassioned shouting at TVs. “Oh, love, that’s the eternal question. How did it come to be invented? Most blokes will tell you it was forged in the fires of some mythical outback brawl, but really, it was Melbourne. 1850s. Gold rush. Too much testosterone and not enough rules.” He leaned forward, swirling his wine with unnecessary flair. “A schoolmaster named Tom Wills wanted to keep cricketers fit in the off-season. So he borrowed from rugby, Irish football, and possibly some Indigenous games, chucked it all in a pot, stirred with a stick, and called it footy.”

Renée added dryly, “And the rest is an endless spiral of concussions and emotional investment.”

Claude leaned toward Pia conspiratorially. “It’s like watching men throw themselves into the air for a spinning hug, and somehow this is a national identity.”

Vic grinned. “It’s chaos ballet. There’s a beauty to it, if you squint.”

“Exactly,” Archer said, jabbing a finger approvingly. “Spoken like a man who’s never tried to umpire a local derby.” He turned back to Pia. “But you want to really understand it? Go to a game. Sit in the sun with a meat pie and someone who cares too much. The rest sorts itself out.”

Camille looked unimpressed. “It’s like theatre without a script.”

Renée gave her a sly glance. “And yet somehow, Camille, it draws bigger crowds.”

The mood had turned light again, sparkling like the bubbles in Renée’s wine, and Pia’s graceful shift between guests hadn’t gone unnoticed. She was conducting the conversation now, and doing it in heels.

"I am a rower, which is the most boring sport for spectators,” Pia declared, “Though camera drones have improved things. Now, gradually, I'm becoming a surfer. Camille, what is your sport, either to play, or to watch?”
Camille tilted her head, folding one leg neatly over the other, fingertips resting lightly on her glass as though she were deciding whether to sip or strike.

“I dance,” she said at last, in English, but with that languid French tempo. “Contemporary, mostly. Improvisation, floor work, experimental movement. But I don’t call it sport.” She let that hang a moment, the cool edge of artistic superiority glinting faintly. “To watch? I like fencing. There’s something satisfying about the rules. Precision. Elegance. It’s not about brute strength. It’s about knowing your opponent’s breath before they decide to inhale.”

Claude gave a delighted little gasp. “Enfin! Someone else who appreciates a proper duel!”

Archer muttered, “Bring back boxing, I say,” under his breath.

Vic, who’d remained relaxed but attentive through all this, leaned toward Pia and whispered, “Did Camille just declare psychological war?” Then, louder, “I tried fencing once. Got disarmed by a twelve-year-old in ten seconds. Pretty humbling.”

Renée looked amused. “Fencing and love have much in common, thrust, parry, sudden reversals.”

Camille turned back to Pia, more focused now. “Surfing is interesting. It’s less about winning. More about surrender. You don’t control the wave. You must wait.” She glanced toward Vic. “You know what I mean.”

The conversational knife was back in play.

"Fencing is another sport created from old military discipline, like javelin, or even rowing, perhaps,” Pia declared. “I would prefer to dance. Even if it isn't sport, it's exercise. May I come to see you dance sometime, Camille? Perhaps you would like to come surfing with me? At least to watch it. Because you'll see you're half-right. The sea decides its moods, but the wahine doesn't surrender. She must work hard to catch the perfect moment of a big wave. And then you soar. Or perhaps wipe out."

Camille studied Pia, the way one might consider a surprising line in a poem, unexpected, maybe even provocative, but undeniably elegant. “You may come,” she said simply, without overplaying it. “If I dance again while I’m here. It depends on the space, and the weather inside me.” Then, after the briefest pause, a small, curious smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And I will come to watch you surf. But I do not promise to be impressed.”

Claude, who’d been watching the exchange like it was a play with excellent blocking, gave a golf clap. “This is better than Molière.”

Archer leaned toward Renée. “Are they duelling or flirting?”

Renée sipped slowly. “Both.”

Vic glanced at Pia and murmured, “Wahine, huh? You never said you had your own mythological title.”

Then, more deliberately: “If you’re surfing Monday, I’ll come. Could use a paddle. Or just carry your board like a knight’s banner.”

The air in the room had shifted. Something playfully competitive, quietly charged. Pia hadn’t just held her own in Renée’s salon. She’d become the main act. And Camille, for all her cool distance, looked intrigued now. As if this was a woman she should keep an eye on.

"Wahine is Hawaiian for a girl surfer. But I'm still a kook, which means a novice,” Pia explained, “So no, Camille, I will not impress you. But I hope you may enjoy some time at the beach. I will lend you my parasol. Let's make a date for soon." Pia smiled hopefully at Camille, but then she suddenly remembered Vic's crucial HR and IT meetings on Monday. Her face became stern. "Vic, you can't go out surfing on Monday. Don't forget your important meeting connected with the bad thing I did."

Vic’s mouth opened slightly, oh right, that bad thing, and he gave a soft exhale through his nose, half-laugh, half-prayer for divine IT mercy. “Ah, yes. The… Monday incident review,” he said, shifting slightly in his seat.

Archer raised an eyebrow. “What exactly happened, mate?”

Vic hesitated. He glanced at Pia, his expression flickering between should I? and might as well. “Okay…” he said at last, “you know how some people send one accidental group email and it’s mortifying? Multiply that by… a few hundred. And then imagine it’s your email account that did it, because someone else was using a cybercafé PC to generate messages they tunnelled in, and a dozen inboxes lit up like the New Year fireworks on the harbour bridge.”

Claude leaned in with fascinated glee. “She hacked your office network?”

Vic grinned crookedly. “She insists it was unintentional. Then, in a very romantic twist, she recruited a geek sidekick to help steal the hard drive involved, and wipe the CCTV footage.”

“Ah, l’amour moderne,” Renée said dryly.

Camille was staring at Pia with genuine curiosity. “Why would you do all that, Olympe?”

“I was trying to find out Vic’s phone number. In a rather complicated way.”

Victor lifted his glass to her again. “Never a dull moment with my favourite cybercriminal.”

Pia seemed embarrassed. "Now that I look back on it, it was a silly thing to do, but it was fun too. I hope everything goes well next week, otherwise I will have to buy Vic a motorbike."

Claude gasped in delight. “Un motard romantique? Mon dieu, Olympe, if you start buying men motorbikes just because you crashed a server, you’ll create a dangerous precedent.”

Archer chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Vic raised an eyebrow, half laughing, half intrigued. “Hang on… so if this goes badly, I get a motorbike? Do I want this meeting to go badly now?”

Renée swirled the wine in her glass with a look that suggested she’d already written the whole incident into a short story. “You are like a hurricane with expensive taste, ma belle. And Victor? He looks like a man who would ride pillion behind you, just to see where you might carry him.”

Camille added dryly, “I think I would like to see that. Olympe in tight leathers. Victor holding on for his life.”

Vic looked at Pia with exaggerated solemnity. “So just to clarify, motorbike only if I’m fired? Or can I trade it in for a mild disciplinary and a really nice helmet?”

The room burst into soft laughter again. Pia’s mischief had been woven into the legend of the evening, a charming petty scandal, the kind people retell at future parties with lowered voices and knowing smiles.

Renée raised her glass again, queen of her salon. “To lovers, hackers, and harmless criminals. May we always have something to talk about.”

As the evening wound down, laughter mellowed into the soft clink of coffee cups and the rustle of coats being gathered. Renée was handing out delicate slices of something almond and citrus when Pia and Camille found themselves momentarily alone by the bookcase, the candlelight throwing soft shadows against their faces.

Pia, poised but relaxed now, offered her phone.

“Shall we exchange numbers? For the beach visit?”

Camille hesitated, but just a breath. Then, with a small nod, she reached into her linen dress and drew out her phone, tapping deliberately, her thumb graceful like a dancer. The handsets touched, and beeped as they swapped numbers through Near Field Communication. She put hers back with a ghost of a smile.

“I’m curious,” Camille said, her voice low. “About the sea. About you.” Her eyes flicked, just for a second, toward Vic, who was across the room laughing with Claude and Archer. “Until then, wahine.”

The tone was polite. Almost warm. But underneath it, a ripple of challenge shimmered, like the first cold stir of a current before the break.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 38: Sensible Precautions

Sunlight was just barely brushing the tops of the blinds when the smell of coffee lured Vic out of the fog.

Pia was already up, of course, bustling around the LDK in a tank top and boyshorts. She had breakfast nearly ready; the usual fruit and veg smoothie, toast, a cheese omelette and a green salad. A small bowl of yoghurt and berries. She wanted to send Vic off to work in the best possible spirits. It might be a fiery day at the office.

“If things get really bad,” she told him as they ate, “I have a lawyer on retainer. Let me give you their contact details.”

He blinked at her. “You really have a lawyer on retainer? I thought you were joking when you said that before.”

She gave a little shrug. “The thing about lawyers is you don’t know how much you need one until suddenly you need one. And I’ve needed some serious legal support over the years. So it’s always seemed like a sensible precaution.”

He might have laughed, or asked follow-up questions, but he didn’t. He just kissed her again at the door, longer this time, trying not to look like a man who was about to carry a stolen hard drive full of barely explored and only ‘mostly harmless’ code into his Monday morning IT review.

"Good luck, Vic." She tweaked his borrowed tie into perfection.

"Try not to commit any crimes while I’m gone," Vic said.

"I shall be the soul of discretion." She patted him lightly on the bum as he turned away.

Once Vic was safely on his way to possible job armageddon, Pia cleared away breakfast and sat down with her laptop and the SD card of CCTV recordings. She started by checking the amount of footage to review. The cafe was open 23/7, and the card had a week of recordings on it, from four different camera angles. It amounted to well over 600 hours of real-time footage to review. It was obvious that she couldn't possibly look at all of the material. Back at Interpol, she would have handed it off to a team of specialists.

I'll try and do it with AI, Pia decided. After some Googly research, she downloaded a tool called ScreenApp and bought enough credit to analyse all the video, generate transcripts of the audio, and create various summaries of the visual content, including facial recognition. Pia then had to work out how to cross-reference the different camera angles, and she had to decide how to set the tool up for what she wanted. It was hard work, needing many iterations.

"I should take a break,” she told herself. “I wonder how Vic is getting on?"

Not great, babe. Not great.

Vic was fifteen minutes into the Monday Morning Maelstrom, otherwise known as the Level 4 Systems Risk Review, when he realised just how deep he was in manure.

The managing director, Olivia Tran, sharp as a scalpel in a navy trouser suit, was clicking through slides on a shared screen with that calm, slow cadence that meant she was loading the cannon. Vic sat near the middle of the long boardroom table, his tie feeling slightly too tight, trying not to sweat through his shirt. The stolen hard drive, sorry, ‘mystery backup unit’, was zipped into an accessories pocket of his laptop bag under the table.

“So,” Olivia said, stopping on a slide titled ‘Irregular External Access Incident 20250531’, “Can someone walk me through this spike?”

Vic briefly considered raising his hand and simply walking out the window. Instead, he cleared his throat. “That, er, may have been an accidental test run of a new admin tool I was reviewing. I flagged it with Internal last week. There’s a write-up pending.”

This was true in a rather tenuous technical sense. Pia had written up her misguided email bombing adventure as a pretend first draft of a penetration-testing tool description, complete with a ludicrous acronym: SPOODER (System Probing Object Oriented Detection Evaluation Routine). She thought she was being helpful. Vic was pretty sure this was how industrial espionage charges got started.

Olivia stared at him. “Victor, was this tool authorised?”

“Uh, it was, in the exploratory phase.”

A pause, the kind that made his balls shrink.

“I’d like you to send me a full report by noon. Include access logs, data packets, and the reason this tool used three different VPN routes, including one from Estonia.”

Jesus.

“Of course,” he replied, smiling tightly.

Arun from Compliance gave Vic a sidelong look. He hoped it was sympathy. It might also have been a warning.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 39: The Scandal Exchange

Pia made the ScreenApp do some test runs. What came out wasn't great, but after a lot of tweaks, eventually it was good enough to make her job of providing human insight a lot more manageable. When she thought the tool was running as well as possible, Pia pressed the button for a full analysis. She settled down to wait, and worry about Vic.

The stupid thermometer bar crawled so very, very, very slowly that it was actually static. She stared at it in frustration. After five minutes a pop-up stated, Time left: About a day.

*I need a better computer.*

Actually the processing was happening in the Cloud.

Pia went to make some tea. She was pouring the boiling water into the pot when her phone trilled for an incoming call. Camille's number.

“Bonjour, Olympe. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I had your number saved and I found myself thinking about the salon last night. I thought I should call before I lost my nerve.” Camille let go a breathy exhalation. “Your story about the cyber-incident, how did you put it? The bad thing. It stayed with me. You made mischief sound almost noble. So tell me. What are you up to this morning? Orchestrating your next little rebellion, perhaps?”

"Allo Camille, how nice to hear from you!" It was a welcome distraction from her worries. Olympe put warmth into her voice, but she forgot to speak French in her British accent, so that her voice accidentally came through with its natural Parisienne intonation. “I'm having a quiet morning ordering sheet music online. I am always in rebellion against the Patriarchy, though. Would you like to join me, perhaps?”

Camille chuckled, sharp-eared and not missing a beat.

“Ah, so that’s your real voice. I thought the accent was a costume, clever, but très étudié. This one suits you better.” She paused again. Her voice turned playful, and edged with intent. “Ordering sheet music, how charmingly wholesome. I was hoping you’d say you were hacking into a government archive or seducing a diplomat. I like being right about people.”

There was a creak of Camille shifting her body. Perhaps she was reclining on a chaise longue, or maybe just theatrically implying it.

“And as for rebellion,” she carried on, “I’ve been looking for a new cause. The Patriarchy has such excellent taste in wine and furnishings, it makes betrayal feel deliciously personal. What are you offering, chère Olympe?”

"To spit rather than swallow.” Olympe sniggered. “To be honest, Camille, all I do is I refuse to shave my legs or armpits. But it's something. Where are you at the moment? It sounds like it might be the place to be seen."

Camille laughed, low, intimate, delighted.

“Ah, enfin, a real confession. Très révolutionnaire. I shall burn my razors at dusk.” Olympe heard the clink of a glass being set down. “I’m at Paramount House. Rooftop café. Everyone here is pretending not to look at each other while judging their shoes. I’m having a grapefruit spritz and trying to look like I belong in a novel by Françoise Sagan. You should join me. Come as you are. Hairy and honest.”

"Wait a moment." Olympe quickly searched Paramount House on her phone. But she couldn't find out the details of the rooftop terrace. "How high up is it, Camille? Can you see the edge?"

“It’s only the fourth floor, darling. Not exactly the Eiffel Tower,” Camille told her, “But yes, you can see the edge, just a low brick wall and some potted herbs trying not to die.” She paused again, thinking. “Why? Are you afraid of heights… or falling?”

“I'm irrationally terrified of heights, Camille. When I go to the Westfield Mall I have to look at the ground because that horrid Sydney Tower is looming above. Please don't tease me about it! You can't know how awful it feels.”

“Je suis désolée. I wasn’t teasing, I promise. I didn’t know,” she said sympathetically. “Look, you don’t have to come up here. We could go somewhere else. Or I could come to you. Or we could just stay on the phone and talk about grapefruit and revolution until the clouds clear.” Another quiet moment. “You bear it well, Olympe. That fear. Most people hide cowardice. You… you hide courage.”

"Is it courage? That's a pretty compliment, Camille. I don't know what to say.” O;ympe's policy in such a situation was to say nothing. She changed the subject. "Let's meet at a café. On the ground floor. Perhaps they will have grapefruits."

Camille’s smile accented her reply. “Alors, très bien. A café on the ground. I’ll even let you choose it. As long as it’s not crawling with laptop men in Patagonia vests talking about cryptocurrency. Text me the name, and I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And Olympe? Thank you for telling me the truth. I think your revolutions may be best when they’re heartfelt.”

Olympe texted Camille the name 11 Miles and a locator pin. It was on Crown Street, a few minutes walk away from both of them. She decided she had no time to do full make-up and dress, so she did the bare minimum on her face, mascara and lipstick, compensated with jewellery, and an easy, casual but chic outfit, a fitted midnight blue minidress with long sleeves and a stars and moon motif. Her white gogo boots completed the look. 20 minutes later Olympe was rocking up to 11 Miles, on the lookout for Camille.

Victor had sent his report at 11:58 a.m., two minutes ahead of the deadline. Olivia hadn’t responded yet. No angry Slack message. No calendar invite for a formal disciplinary. Just silence.

He stared at his monitor, rereading the fake-but-technically-plausible justification for the tool Pia had, let’s call it field tested. The SPOODER acronym still made him want to die, but it passed the sniff test. Arun had pinged with a thumbs-up emoji and the note, “Ballsy. Might work.”

He was still trying to decide whether that counted as good news when his screen lit up with a new meeting invite:

Ad hoc follow-up – 1:00 p.m.
From: Olivia Tran
Location: Private Office

That was never a good sign. And not an invitation anyone could decline.

Vic leant back, flexed his hands, cracked his knuckles gently. The hard drive was still zipped into the laptop bag like a cursed relic. He’d checked superstitiously, twice, that it wasn’t broadcasting anything. Even though it had no power supply. No lights. No beeping. Just... dormant guilt.

He picked up his phone to text Pia, something light, Still alive. Might not be for long, but stopped halfway through typing. No. Better she didn’t worry. Let her have her quiet day. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and stood up.
It was showtime.

Camille appeared as if conjured, casually late by only five minutes, just enough to make it seem like she’d floated there on the breeze. Today she wore high-waisted navy trousers with crisp pleats and a sleeveless ivory blouse that made her look both sculpted and soft. Her sunglasses were too expensive for the postcode, and her perfume arrived three seconds before she did, fig and cedar and something faintly peppery. Paris in summer. A diplomatic weapon. She scanned the café, spotted Olympe through the window, and allowed herself a small, almost private smile. She pushed the door open with one hand, her phone in the other like a loosely held pack of Gitanes.

“There you are. Très jolie,” she said, eyes lighting on the boots with visible appreciation. “You look like you just stepped out of an illustrated poem.” She slipped into the seat across from Olympe, shrugging her bag down with a feline elegance. “So. You’re going to feed me something with grapefruit, and I’m going to tell you something scandalous. That’s how this works, non?”

Olympe took this easy familiarity as a signal to switch into the informal 'tu' mode of address. She tried it out quickly.

"Have you a scandal to reveal, Camille? I love to hear about scandals, but first let me order you something special of grapefruits." Scanning the menu, Olympe had found a tarte tatin style grapefruit and burnt caramel flan creation. Now she ordered two portions, and coffees to go with it. "Frankly I have my doubts about this but we will suffer together if it goes badly. Now, your scandal, Camille..." Olympe focussed her intense, almost flirty attention on the French woman.

Camille’s eyes flicked up, catching the tu, a silent little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t say anything, but her body language softened, just slightly. The shift accepted, she leaned her chin on her hand, fingers curled like a dancer’s.

“D’accord. I’ll give you one from the archives. University years in Lyon. I was dating an older man, of course, and he was terribly political. Big ideas, big speeches, tiny car. One night, after a fight about Rousseau, I broke into his flat and rearranged all his books by the author’s nationality.” She paused to let that sink in.

Olympe gasped in admiration, “Genius!”

“He never noticed. But he published an essay three weeks later about ‘borderless philosophy.’ Won a prize.” Camille shrugged, almost bashfully, if she was capable of bashful. “I let him have it. He was prettier when he felt clever.” Her smile widened as she tilted her head.
“Your turn, Olympe. A scandal for a scandal. And don’t tell me it’s all in your boyfriend’s IT dilemmas.”

Olympe chuckled at Camille's student prank. "You like older men? I have to admit, they often make up in experience what they may lack in energy compared to a boy. So, my wickedness; I once met a girl in a bookshop in Chicago. I was buying a new manga release. She was looking for something on self-fulfillment through mindfulness, after a bad break-up with her boyfriend. I took her for cocktails in the Waldorf-Astoria hotel and seduced her in the powder room."

The grapefruit tarts arrived, and flat white coffees.

Camille lifted one perfectly arched brow, her eyes alight with mischief and something warmer. “In the powder room? Très audacieuse. And chic. I can imagine you taking a girl apart like a Swiss watch, then reassembling her with love and attention.” She considered the tart in front of her like a poem with footnotes, then munched a slow, thoughtful bite. Her expression went from intrigued to faintly euphoric.

“Oh mon dieu. This is absurd! I love it.”

She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin and leaned in slightly. “So, did you ever see her again, your bookstore conquest? Or was it a one act play?” She inclined her head just enough to let her sunglasses slip down the bridge of her nose.

"A two act play. We drifted apart. I had made the mistake of not dancing with her before I seduced her,” Olympe admitted. “She was a virgin, in lesbian terms I mean, and did not become a satisfactory lover. I don't do that with girls any more. These days I stick to men. Though to be honest, my choice in men has often been very poor.”

Olympe tried the tart. "Not bad. I love grapefruit, actually, and so does my father, but he can't eat it any more. He is on some medication it interacts badly with. So sad. Are we to trade more scandals?"

Camille nodded slowly, lips pursed around a tiny, admiring smile. “You’re very honest. I appreciate that. And yes, dancing first is always wiser. I’ve made similar mistakes. Enthusiasm can be cruel when it doesn’t pause to listen.”
She took another bite of the tart, pausing mid-chew at the mention of Olympe’s father, then swallowed delicately.

“Ah, yes. Grapefruit: the nemesis of statins and romance.” She tapped her fork lightly on the edge of her plate, eyes glinting. “One more, then I’ll be late for my appointment with a man who thinks Freud invented bisexuality.”

Camille leaned forward conspiratorially. “Okay, last year, in Marseille, I dated a jazz bassist who lived on a boat. It was perfect until I realised he hadn’t had a land address in six years. One night, he left for a gig and I found three identical toothbrushes under the sink. All the same brand. I left a fourth, just to see what would happen.” She sat back, looking very pleased with herself.

“And what happened?” Olympe leant forward, avid for the denouement.

“When I next visited, there were five.”

Olympe actually lolled at this revelation!

"Incredible! Perhaps the toothbrushes were having babies. A new industrial process. You could have patented it, Camille." She chuckled at the idea. "Everyone who lives on boats isn't bad, though. I have a lovely friend who lives on his motor-sailer yacht nearly all the time. Last I heard from him, he was in Paris trying to begin an affair with a young tennis star."

Camille’s laugh was quieter than Olympe’s but unmistakably delighted, low and lilting, with real mirth behind it.

“A tennis star in Paris? That is very promising. It has the bones of a film already. Does your friend wear linen and speak in riddles? I feel he must.”

“No, but he writes haiku, in Japanese.”

Camille rested her cheek briefly on her palm, watching Olympe like someone admiring the landscape through a train window. “You have the most fascinating friends, Olympe. You seem to collect characters the way other women collect shoes. And somehow, you keep them all in play.” She glanced down at her plate, then back up, a touch more serious. “You don’t strike me as someone who stays long in one place. Do you think you’ll stay in Sydney?”

"I'm on a three month tourist visa. I have to leave the country to reapply. I took a six month lease on my flat, which… May have been stupid.” She shrugged and twitched an eyebrow. “But it's tiring, you know, to keep moving, living half my life out of suitcases, never putting down roots. I could always go back to Europe. Familiar, safe, but now there is Vic to consider." Olympe suddenly remembered the predicament he was in at the office. Her face fell.

Camille noticed the shift immediately, how the light in Olympe’s eyes dimmed like a lamp turned down. Her expression softened; the amusement faded, replaced by something quietly attentive. “You care for him.” It wasn’t a question. It was a gentle statement of fact. “He looked at you last night like a man who’s just stepped out of a cave and realised it’s spring. Does he know what he’s holding?” She reached for her cup, not to drink, just to hold something. “Is that why you looked suddenly as though you remembered you've left the stove on?” A pause, then her voice dipped into something more private, more cautious. “Is he in trouble, Olympe?”

"Nothing actually criminal, but Vic could lose his job if things go badly. And it's my fault. And I do care for him. Maybe not as much as he likes me. Not yet. But it could happen. I want it to happen. I can't make it happen. All I can do is stick around and hope. If that makes any sense?"

Camille nodded, slowly, thoughtfully, her eyes locked with Olympe’s. “It makes perfect sense. You’re telling me you don’t love him yet, but you’re staying to see if the ground becomes steady under your feet.” She paused, drawing a lazy circle on the rim of her plate with a fingertip. “I think that’s the most honest way to love someone, when you’re not certain, but you still show up. Every day. Even when it’s complicated. Especially then.” She glanced away for the first time, watching a passing waiter as though collecting her thoughts. “And it’s rare. People either fall too fast or bolt too soon. You… you’re walking into the fire, eyes open.”

A small, admiring smile touched her lips. “If I were Victor, I’d be terrified. And entirely in love.”

"He should be frightened. I am. I've hurt men very badly before now, and they've hurt me. I don't want anything like that to happen again." Olympe ate the last bite of her grapefruit tart. "Thanks for listening to me, Camille. Are we friends now? Or at least, not enemies?"

Camille regarded Olympe with a level, almost amused gaze, an expression like someone recognising a fellow wolf in the forest and deciding not to bite. “I don’t think we were ever enemies. But friends…?” She considered it like a chess move, then gave a slow, genuine nod.

“Oui. Friends. The kind who don’t flinch from each other’s darkness. I mean, we are already using the ‘tu’ form, so let’s make it official.” She tilted her head, a faint smile returning. “I’ve always wanted a friend who could seduce a woman in a powder room and survive Australian immigration bureaucracy.”

Camille lifted her glass in a quiet toast. “To grapefruit. And fear. And choosing to stay.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 40: Defensive Hardware

Olivia Tran’s office was spotless, all cool neutrals, a few architectural prints, a Japanese bonsai on a slate pedestal. Nothing with eyes. Nothing to suggest emotion was permitted here.

She gestured for Vic to sit without looking up, scrolling on her tablet.

"Your report was… Creative," she said finally. "SPOODER?"

He cleared his throat. "It’s a backronym."

"So I gathered."

She set the tablet down. Folded her hands.

"You’ve worked here for four years, Vic. Never been late. Never raised a flag. And then, this. Unauthorised access spikes. VPN routes through the Baltics. A random log file called ishallfindvicishall.txt attached to nearly 200 separate emails."

Vic froze.

She arched an eyebrow. "Do you want to explain that?"

"That was a joke. From someone else. It won’t happen again."

Her silence was... Endless. Eventually:

"Victor, I want to believe you weren’t complicit. That you were the unfortunate victim of someone else’s digital mischief. Do you have anything else I should see before I finalise my report and make my recommendations?"

This was it.

Vic reached into his bag, slowly, carefully, and pulled out the hard drive Pia had given him. Set it on the desk like a peace offering. It clonked softly against the inlaid leather surface.

"This has the original test data. Full logs. Including what triggered the security alerts. I thought you should see it."

She eyed the hard drive. Studied Vic’s face.

"This had better be very, very boring."

Olivia rose from her seat, hard drive in hand, and crossed to the side desk where a grim-looking old Lenovo sat like a retired military officer, air-gapped, stickered with DO NOT CONNECT, and probably last used to review a disgraced partner's expense budgets. She plugged in the drive and typed with precise efficiency. No flourish. No wasted motion. Like an elite surgeon.

Vic sat perfectly still, resisting the urge to drum his fingers or breathe audibly. It was impossible to tell if the bonsai was judging him, or sympathising.

The folder tree popped up.

SPOODER_Tests → Logs → SPOODER_v0.3 → Notes + Packets + TrafficSummary.docx

Olivia opened the traffic summary first. Scanned. Scroll. Scroll. Pause.

"Well," she murmured. "This is extremely dull."

She looked at the hard drive sitting on the desk like a cryptic little time bomb, then searched through the root directory, looking for hidden system files.

Games. Lots of them. Random saves. Obscure titles. Galactic Ferret Panic 2. Bubblegum Crisis. Tokyo Love Story. Glass Heart Beatbox. Daughters of Tomorrow. And any number of advanced utilities, Visual Studio, Sysinternals Suite, BulletPassView. It was the sort of cluttered digital landscape that said teenage boy, sysadmin dropout, or brilliant chaos gremlin. Or all three.

“Either camouflage,” she muttered, “or someone with too much spare time and no self-respect.”

She clicked some more, confirmed that the firewall logs showed no suspicious traffic, no trojans, worms, or hidden daemons seeking revenge. Then she ejected the drive and made a mental note.

*Shred contents. Physically destroy. Gauss it to magnetic oblivion. Crush it. End of story. Security box ticked. No headline. No watchdogs sniffing. And no paperwork.*

Olivia smiled grimly.

“Take this gak down to IT and have them obliterate it. Enjoy your nervous breakdown, Victor,” she murmured, and moved on to her next email.

Vic lost no time in making himself scarce. Olivia would have canned him on the spot if she had decided she needed to. He was glad of the reprieve.

Pia's walk home from 11 Miles took a little longer than usual, partly on purpose. Surry Hills sprawled around her, all trendy boutiques, second-hand record shops, converted terraces, jacaranda trees, and the scent of slightly burnt sourdough. A man in a brown linen suit was having a deeply emotional conversation with a French bulldog. Two girls rode past on a tandem bike, singing in alarming harmony. She headed for the bottle shop like a girl on a quest.

Two bottles of Campari to beat the next inevitable supply chain balls-up. Simple syrup. Tanqueray Import Strength Gin. Maker’s Mark bourbon, super cheap since the US government had shat their economic bed. And a small bottle of blood orange bitters, because it looked dramatic. Her phone buzzed in her bag just as she stepped out into the street again. It was a message from Vic.

still employed <emoji: smiley with sweat drop>
you’re off the hook
drinks tonight? pick the poison

Pia read Vic's message with huge relief and delight. She practically ran home to drop off her alcoholic loot, reading the sacred words again and again.

"@Bae: Thank Goddess, Vic! I'm so happy!! I really didn't want to buy you a motorbike in case you drove off a cliff or something. Bar Copains, Albion Street, 19:00."

She changed into her running kit and did a punishing 10K around Moore Park, arriving home drenched in sweat. After her shower she faced the problem of choosing an outfit.

"What to wear, what to wear? New face, low key jewellery because it's only Monday. My French blue trouser suit. Scoop neck white tee-shirt, black lace corset -- does wonders for my bust! -- and the Louboutin sneakers. Creed Silver Mountain Water. Slay!"

Vic let out a breath he’d been holding all day when Pia’s message came through.

Thank Goddess, Vic! I'm so happy!! I really didn't want to buy you a motorbike in case you drove off a cliff or something. Bar Copains, Albion Street, 19:00.

He laughed right there in the elevator. An intern beside him flinched.

Bar Copains. Perfect.

Back at his desk, he shoved the crushed paper of his earlier “resignation note draft” deep into the recycling bin. The hard drive? Already handed off to IT with a smile and a shrug. By 6 p.m. he was home, showered, freshly shaven, and nervously contemplating his limited wardrobe.

Jeans and a tee? Too casual. Business suit? Too apology-tour.

In the end Vic went with dark denim, a charcoal linen button-up shirt, cuffs rolled, and the black boots Pia had once said made him look like he’d stolen a motorcycle. A spritz of Tom Ford Oud Wood. Phone. Wallet. Nerves.

On my way. Please don’t be more glamorous than the moon.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 41: An Evening with the Boys

Bar Copains was a long thin building on the corner of Albion Street and Belmore, next to a quaintly shabby townhouse. The sign was discreet, just the word Copains in vintage neon, flickering pink against the dusk.

Inside, it was all mood lighting and mid-century angles. Polished brass. Deep green leather. A long bar like a runway, already lined with the kind of men who practised agile conversation and excellent skincare. Copains meant mates, but this was no sports bar. It was the kind of place where everyone’s shirt was perfectly pressed and no one was drinking beer.

Vic ordered a Negroni to match the mood and found a corner banquette beneath a print of two hunky sailor boys kissing in silhouette. Huh?

Five minutes passed. Ten. Then fifteen. He checked his phone. No messages. He sipped his drink. Tried not to be obvious about scanning the room.

A man in a teal linen shirt and sculpted beard caught Vic’s eye. Gave him a once-over. Smiled.

Another minute. Vic cleared his throat. Looked away. Looked back. The guy was still smiling.

Vic realised, 20 minutes too late, that his seat was directly under a discreet rainbow flag and a wall-mounted sign that read “THIRSTY THURSDAY: FLIRT RESPONSIBLY”.

*Right.*

Just as Mr Teal Shirt began to make his move, rising from his seat, confidence shining, drink in hand, the door burst open before a wave of breathless energy and short, honey-blonde hair.

The trouser suit hit first, tailored, French blue, giving absolute girl boss. But under it: black lace, cinched tight and unapologetic, like she'd fallen off the runway during Fashion Week and just happened to land in Surry Hills.

Pia looked like someone you’d either surrender to, or follow into battle. Or maybe both. She was flushed, glowing from the run and the rush, scanning the room with the narrow-eyed guilt of a woman who had just realised she was late and fabulous.

Mr Teal Shirt hesitated mid-step. Took one look at Pia, whistled silently to himself, and pivoted gracefully back toward the bar.

Smart man.

Vic stood, grinning in disbelief.

“You’re a miracle. Also twenty minutes late. What on earth were you doing, rehearsing your entrance?” He became slightly cross after the initial relief of her arrival.

Pia scanned the bar like a Terminator and instantly realised from her own history of LGBTQ+ adventures that it was the kind of place a lot of men gather not to watch the sports channel on a 4K wallscreen. She grabbed Vic by the collar and gave him a pretty hot kiss as a way of planting a hetero flag.

The kiss caught Vic off guard in the best way. Pia’s lips were cool from the night air, soft and firm, and her tongue was confident. He forgot his name for a second. So did a few people nearby, judging by the collective pause in ambient conversation. She pulled back, nonchalant as ever, like she hadn’t just re-established diplomatic control of a sovereign territory.

He blinked and sighed, “Well. Hello to you, too.”

"I like your outfit,” she smiled at him. “After I had got dressed I thought you might come in a tee-shirt and jeans. But actually that would have been okay. Because this is a celebration of your glorious success! Why are you wearing those boots? Are you planning to buy a motorbike for yourself? Let's order now. All I had for lunch was a slice of grapefruit tarte tatin.”

He took her in again, those Louboutin sneakers catching the bar’s accent lighting, her corset making it extremely difficult to maintain eye contact, the suit setting off the whole look with just enough restraint to be legally wearable.

“I wore the boots,” he said, leading her toward a newly vacated table, “because I knew you’d turn up looking like a Bond villain on her night off, and I didn’t want to be outclassed again.”

They slid into their seats. Vic waved at the waiter. “Two cocktails. Something sharp and citrusy, please. And, uh, some snacks? She’s hungry and I’m traumatised. Anything involving cheese.”

The waiter nodded and vanished. Vic turned back to Pia, leaning in, grinning.

“So. What were you really doing while I was busy saving my professional arse? Don’t tell me you were just doing your eyeliner. This amount of lateness feels like you discovered a murder plot.”

"I was looking at my CCTV footage. I got excited because I may have found something but I'm not sure what, yet. I have to do a lot more checking. That's why I was late. How did it go at the office today? Tell me whatever you can. But if you can't tell me anything, I'm still happy you're out of the woods. You are out of the woods, aren’t you, Vic? Really out?

He reached for her hand instinctively, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

“I’m out of the woods,” Vic said, quiet but certain. “The wolves sniffed around, but they decided I wasn’t tasty enough.” He smiled, but it was a tired smile.

“Olivia grilled me,” he explained. “Real slow-burn style. But the hard drive worked, it was boring enough to be innocent. She even joked about shredding it. Handed it off for me to deal with and then sent me away like it was a dentist appointment. So I’m back in her good books.” Vic leaned back in the seat, finally letting the weight slide off his shoulders. “And I didn’t tell her anything she didn't need to know. The drive is trashed, The evidence is gone. I’m safe, you’re safe, we’re both safe. But Pia…”

Vic looked her in the eye. She looked him back

“If you think you’ve found something, really found something, you need to be careful.” He let that hang for a second before adding, “And you were worth the wait, by the way. Even if you did nearly stand me up in a gay bar.”

"There's nothing wrong with gay bars, Vic. You can pick up a lot of fashion tips,” she told him. “Anyway, we're here now, and we have a nice table, so why bother to move? The boys have probably clocked my masculine vibe and decided I'm something of a butch dyke." Pia's suit buttoned up left over right, like a man's. Her short hair made her look boyish. She had forgotten the very hot hetero kiss she had given Vic. She smiled, thinking about the mysterious Olivia, Vic's escape, and the erasure of the evidence against her.

"So they trashed my drive? Excellent! It’s always good to get someone else to incriminate themselves by destroying your guilty secrets. It wasn't really guilty, obviously. I mean more of a potential embarrassment. Anyway I'm not going to go anywhere near that kind of caper again. I'm a reformed character, now. More or less."

Vic laughed, soft and delighted, tracing the rim of his glass as it arrived, tall, green-tinged, fragrant with lime and danger.

“Well, butch dyke or not, you’re still the hottest person in this bar, and half of them know it. The other half are just mad you’ve stolen their look and improved on it.”

He raised his glass in a half-mock salute. “To gender confusion, tactical evidence destruction, and your budding reformation. May it last at least until the weekend.”

Vic took a sip. The cocktail was tart, punchy, and far too drinkable. “Yes,” he continued, “Olivia’s given that drive the full Cold War treatment. Gaussed, crushed, and incinerated for extra drama. Which is perfect, because now there’s no chain of custody and no way to prove who put it together. You? Me? Some Estonian script kiddy?”

He grinned at her across the table. “She doesn’t want answers. She wants peace. And I think she liked that I didn’t throw you under the bus.” He sipped again. “I wouldn’t, you know. Not for anything.”

"I would have taken that bullet for you to save your job, Vic. Illegal computer intrusion sounds bad but it was really just an accident. Then there was a little bit of minor larceny of the drive. $200 of damage? Hardly worth the effort to prosecute."

Pia took a swig of her cocktail and began to hoover up the tapas style bar snacks. "I had lunch with Camille. Well, it was pudding, basically. And I did a 10K, so I'm pretty hungry." Clearly she had decided that the ‘bad thing’ was now in the past.

Vic watched her demolish a bowl of marinated olives like they owed her money, and it made his heart hurt in the best way.

“Camille, huh?” He reached for a wedge of manchego. “Should I be worried? Was it strictly platonic pudding, or did it come with lingering looks and potential espionage?” He popped the cheese into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. “She’s interesting, that one. Like a very elegant knife. Did you two trade blood oaths or just gossip?”

Pia paused to mentally review the conversation with Camille. The edgy French woman had warmed up and listened sympathetically to various love related confessions she was not about to admit to Vic.

"We traded scandals about our past. Boys we shagged at university. That kind of thing. Also we advanced our relationship to the 'tu' stage. That's a fairly significant thing in French culture."

He raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Tu, huh? That’s like second base in French terms, isn’t it? He leaned back, watching the light flicker across the rim of his glass as he took another sip. “She must like you. I mean, obviously. You don’t drop tu and tarte tatin with just anyone.”

Vic smirked. “Did you talk about me? Or was I conveniently filed under current entanglements, uncertain outcome?” He said it lightly, but he was listening hard.

Pia clammed up and concentrated on eating. But Vic's question couldn't be avoided.

"Vic, sometimes there are questions which shouldn't be asked in case you won't like the answer…” she chewed another bite to create a pause.

“Actually we did talk about you. Us. You and me, I mean,” she admitted. "Vic? You remember the worst thing I ever did? What happened with Hisashi in Tokyo? Whatever happens between you and me, I'm not going to let it end up like that. Not you dead, I mean. I mean you all heartbroken and lonely.”

She reached out and took Vic’s hand.

“The way I feel now is that we're building something special and we've got a big load of bricks and a... Twirly machine you make cement in. Combine harvester? No, that’s something else. Anyway, you know what I mean. We're stacking up our bricks and it's going really well." Pia slugged down the rest of her cocktail and waved at the bartender for another. "You ever watch Grand Designs?"

Her honesty hit Vic hard. He put his glass down slowly, letting the words settle. The name Hisashi sat in the middle of the table like a dropped coin, unspoken weight behind it. He reached across with his other hand and touched Pia’s wrist, not to interrupt, just to be there. Steady.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “I remember. And I know what you mean. Cement mixer. Steel joists and big piles of bricks. Lots of artistic camera shots. Weird lecturer bloke in a linen suit narrating everything. That’s exactly what we’re doing.” He smiled at her. “Yes, Pia, I watch Grand Designs. Religiously. My favourite part is when the people run out of money and Kevin looks at the camera like it’s a Greek tragedy.”

Vic grinned. “Let’s not run out of money. Or sanity.”

"We don't need to worry about money, Vic. I've got money. But I sense you're a guy who wouldn't be happy as a kept man. I can tell you have your pride, your self-respect. And respect for your girls. I mean not now, because you've got me. Emma. Things didn't work out with her but it wasn't because of cash flow issues. It was relationship stuff. The sanity bit. I know I'm mad but you keep me grounded."

That hit harder than she might have thought. Vic rubbed the back of his neck and laughed, low and sheepish.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve never been great at taking handouts. Not even birthday money from my mum.” He reached for her hand again, this time more firmly, his thumb resting in the little valley between her thumb and her forefinger.

“And you’re right about Emma and me. It wasn’t like we hit some disaster, just... in the end there was nothing to build on. As if we had made a plan that neither of us ended up liking.”

He gave her a look, honest and warm.

“But you’re not mad, Pia. Or if you are, it’s the kind of creative madness that makes things grow. You’re the thunderstorm that waters the garden. I don’t feel like I’m being dragged, I feel like I’m getting somewhere for the first time in years.”

He squeezed her hand, then leaned in with a smirk.

“Also, if grounding you means occasionally being taken to gay bars and threatened with a motorbike, then I’m in.”

"Is it kissing time?” Pia asked. “Otherwise I've got an amusing anecdote about motorbikes."

He grinned, tugging her gently closer across the table.

“Kissing and an amusing anecdote about motorbikes? Honestly, Pia, I feel spoiled.”

Vic leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving her a beat to pull away if she wanted, but of course she didn’t. Their lips met, soft and charged, tasting of citrus and promises and something deeper that neither of them had quite put a name to yet. He pulled back, just enough to breathe.

“Okay. Now tell me the motorbike story before I go and propose in a cocktail bar.”

Pia froze for a hot second at the casual mention of a marriage proposal. Fright and hope? Or nervous anticipation. Not knowing how she might respond if it actually happened. She covered her feelings with a rush into her motorbike story.

"So. This is a story passed down through my family for decades. My father's godfather used to have a motorbike. I should explain that he died before I was born, so I never met him, but apparently he was a real character. Lost his trigger finger in a cricketing accident at school, so he couldn’t fight in World War 2, and built a multi-million pound construction and property empire instead. He would go into the office on Saturday mornings to bank cheques, so they would clear a day earlier for the interest.”

She drained her glass and signalled for another.

“Anyway, during the 1930s, when Uncle Leslie was courting the girlfriend who later became his wife, he had a motorcycle. This was well before he got rich. Cars were very expensive. Yeah, I know, ancient history, right? But boys and girls met each other and courted, married, had sex, or we wouldn't be here now."

Pia's story tumbled out with loose organisation and the kind of weird tangents that made her so interesting to listen to.

"Where was I? Oh yes, they were on a motorbike tour. And they stopped while going up a hill, for some reason. Maybe to look at the view. Then Uncle Leslie got back on the bike, and Auntie Olive got on behind him. He opened the throttle and took off, and Olive fell off the back of the bike. And Leslie didn't notice! He just thought, it's running well today."

Vic burst out laughing, one of those deep, helpless laughs that rattles the ribs.

“Oh my God, Pia. He left her lying in the road on a hill?”

He leaned forward, eyes wide.

“That’s incredible. That’s not just vintage, it’s mythic. He was probably halfway to Dover before he noticed she wasn’t screaming in his ear.”

He took a sip of his drink, still grinning.

“And she married him?”

He shook his head in mock awe.

“That was true love.”

He looked at Pia again, really looked, her flushed cheeks, her spark, the lopsided grin she gave when she knew she was being ridiculous.

“Thanks for that. I needed a good story after today. You’re a better cure than tequila. And by the way, I was mostly joking about the marriage thing. You don’t have to look like I proposed during foreplay.”

Pia didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed. She had had three cocktails on top of a mostly empty stomach and a 10K run. She was blinking like an owl. "I think I need to go to bed," she muttered. There was a wobble in her voice like a warped record, and the blink-blink of someone trying and failing to keep the world in crisp focus. Her posture had loosened, corset or not, and her words had the velvety slur of a woman who might either order dessert or fall asleep in her chair.

Vic leaned in, rested a hand lightly on her arm.

“Alright, baby owl,” he said softly, “Bedtime it is.”

He dropped some notes on the table, too much probably, and stood, offering her his arm for support.

“You’re a charming drunk, by the way. Slightly chaotic. Surprisingly educational. But I think we’d better get you home before you start giving architectural lectures about family members.”

He wrapped an arm around her as they moved toward the door.

“Come on. You can tell me more about trigger fingers and motorbikes on the walk back. I’ll tuck you in safely. No funny business. Unless you initiate the funny.”

Pia wasn't as drunk as she seemed, though. She was pretty hard-headed. Kabukicho had taught her how to pace herself unobtrusively. After all the talk about potential proposals she wanted to test Vic, to find out if he was a guy she could rely on, or the kind of man she'd been with before who would take this opportunity to do her bareback, because they thought she was too far gone to object.

Her last boyfriend was an urn full of crematorium ash his mother still wept over daily, exactly because he had tried to take advantage of Pia like that, and ignored her refusals. Pia believed in Vic, and she was going to take a risk because everything Vic had done with her so far had been gentle and almost too respectful of her boundaries. And she loved it.

They reached her unit.

"I need shower, Vic. Then bed. Are you staring, Bae? Straying. Staying. Over. Whose gonna hang my suit?" She wobbled around between her bedroom, the LDK, and the bathroom, gradually dumping items of clothing. Her laptop was plugged in and bleeping away behind its lockscreen.

She was swaying like a wind chime in a soft breeze, but a glint in her eye told Vic: this girl’s still in the driver’s seat. Testing. Watching. Not drunk, not really. Just woozy enough to drop the needle anywhere and see what track played.

He followed her around, catching up her discarded clothes as she went to and fro like a beautiful tornado. The apartment felt alive with her scent still hanging in the air, the pieces of expensive jewellery she removed and dropped into a spare wine glass. The faint techno-bleep of the laptop, like a polite robot trying not to interrupt.

“Bae,” Vic echoed, dryly amused, “I am absolutely not straying. I am, however, staying. And I will be hanging your suit, because I enjoy being alive.”

“Vic’s Dry Cleaning & Emotional Stability Service,” he announced, carefully putting the jacket on a hanger and smoothing the trousers. “Open weekday nights and public holidays. No judgement, no unsolicited nudity.”

She flitted toward the bathroom, and he called after her, soft but clear:

“Take your time. I’ll be right here. Your sofa, your bed, the floor, wherever you want me. Nothing you don’t ask for.”

Vic went to sit on the couch, back straight, hands on his knees.

Let her see I’m not moving unless invited.

Pia realised that her subtle manipulation had not worked. This was good and bad. It was good because it proved he really got her, understood her moods and behaviours. It was bad because now she had to wait for Vic to be tested in a more real-world situation she might not be able to control. I'll be patient, she told herself. It will happen. And I'm confident Vic will rise to the challenge.

She didn’t close the bathroom door. She let him see her as she was, whole, unhidden. The bullet scar, the healed gashes along her arm, her muscles and her female curves, her hairy armpits and her curated pubic hair. The way her body told stories her mouth had only hinted at. Her contradictions. He didn’t stare, but he didn't look away either.

She trusts me with this.

Pia wandered back from the shower naked and damp, her various scars on casual display, put on a shortie pyjama set and got into bed. "Are you coming in, Vic?"

When she finally crawled into bed in that little pyjama set, all long legs and warm arms, and said, “Are you coming in, Vic?”, it wasn’t a tease. It was an invitation into her world, her vulnerability, her rules.

He stripped down to his boxers, folded his shirt over the back of a chair, and washed quickly. He crossed to the other side of the bed. Slid under the covers. Warmth. Soft sheets. The faint scent that was just her.

He didn’t reach for her. Just said quietly, “Thanks for trusting me.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 42: Suspicions

By the time Vic boarded the next uptown tram, Pia had unloaded the dishwasher, started a laundry cycle, and written a shopping list.

*I must make him do a fair share of the housework,* she thought, wiping down the kitchen counter with more force than necessary. *He does it at home. Doesn’t he?*

She had been to Vic’s flat only once. A short, urgent afternoon when everything smelled like salt and sunscreen. And mostly sex. Because that was all they had been doing. The unit seemed clean, but then, so had her ex’s apartment in Chicago, the first time she visited. That guy had stashed a month’s worth of mouldy Tupperware in the oven, and tried to serve her wine in a mug.

“Don’t go there,” she muttered to herself, catching her distorted reflection in the chrome shell of the toaster. “I like Vic. Vic is safe. Vic folds towels, and he puts the toilet seat down.”

Still, the thought twisted into a deeper one. *I shouldn’t get too used to him being here. We’re not engaged or anything. It could all go terribly wrong.*

She poured herself a third cup of coffee. Big mistake. Her brain began to buzz like an overactive crime board. She paced. Watered the houseplants. Leafed through sheet music. Played with her jewellery and thought about buying some opals. Australia's signature gemstone. She was about to search them up online, but instead she changed course, flopped on the sofa with her laptop, and pulled up the AI-assisted analysis of GeekStar’s CCTV footage. She’d already reviewed several clips, tagging the ones with obvious normality, people typing, ordering food, teens playing games while pretending to study.

But now on frame 10:13:41 from Wednesday, something seriously caught Pia's attention.

Mid morning. A figure at a corner table. Hoodie up, fingers flying across the keyboard in staccato motion like a jazz pianist.

Nothing really unusual. Other than most young people couldn’t type properly. And this dude had slotted a USB stick into the side of the terminal. Stayed just fifteen minutes. Then, on another camera angle, Pia squinted, was that the same guy leaving a few minutes later, with a completely different outfit on?

She leant forward. “That’s odd.”

Pia bookmarked the timestamp and exported a clip. Time to get Alex involved? Not yet. She scrubbed the video back and forward as she watched it again and again. Something about the person’s movements. The quick glance to the side. The way they rolled their sleeves down before leaving the shop.

“Definitely odd,” she murmured. “And possibly something worse.”

She picked up her phone.

“@Gamerboy: Hey. Remember the drive you helped me get? And the CCTV data card? I think I’ve found something interesting. When are you free to geek out with me?"

She set the phone down and leaned back, mind racing with theory and counter-theory. Then, with a sigh, she looked at her calendar. It was nearly Jimny Day.

Pia smiled.

Victor Davern sat in a glass walled conference room that was definitely too hot, listening to his manager Olivia Tran give a presentation on “network integrity protocols” like they weren’t all still quietly recovering from the incident.

He tried to focus. Honestly. But his brain kept slipping into useless loops.

*Why did she iron my shirt? Was that her way of saying she wants me around more? Or is she trying to soften me up for another bombshell?*

He blinked, realising Olivia had asked a question.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll definitely want to sandbag those access rights until the logging system’s verified.”

Olivia nodded, not entirely convinced, but also not entirely engaged. The whole team was bruised and distracted. What Pia’s ‘bad thing’ had done was mostly invisible to them, but the ripple effects were still making the surface wobble like a loose jelly.

Vic’s hard drive ploy had succeeded. Technically. Olivia had closed the loop, wiped the fake logs, and sent out a polite but pointed all-staff reminder about unauthorised network access. He should’ve been relieved. Instead, he was restless.
l
He glanced down at the legal pad beside his laptop, where he’d doodled a miniature Jimny in battle against a dragon labelled Quarterly KPIs. He was twenty-nine. A mid-level quant with a decent prospect of promotion in a small but reputable firm. He had a hot girlfriend who surfed, made omelettes with fresh herbs, and kept a bottle of high-strength gin in the freezer.

So why did he feel like he was wearing someone else’s skin?

The truth settled in his stomach like a stone: This job doesn’t matter to me anymore.

He still liked analysis and code. Still liked problem-solving, building clean logic, tinkering with elegant solutions. But the corporate weight of it, the red tape, endless meetings, and sterile office politics, was grinding him down. And since Pia had come charging into his life with her scandals and fire and impossible laugh, he couldn’t unsee how beige it all was.

His phone beeped. A message from Dan.

“Surf’s gonna be Fire this weekend. Kiri’s keen. You in?”

“@Dan: Always. Let’s make it a crew thing. Pia wants to drag Camille out."

“Excellent. Who’s Camille, she hot?”

“Dangerous. And you’re married. And I’ve got a girlfriend.”

Dan replied with three flame emojis and a GIF of a man jumping into a volcano.

Vic smiled faintly. Then flicked back to his code window.

The work was the same. The lines of Python and SQL still made sense. But the rush was gone.

His phone buzzed. A text from Pia.

“How’s Olivia? Has she eaten you yet?

He snorted, then tapped out a reply.

“@Pia: Olivia’s given up cannibalism. I’m safe for now.”

Her reply was immediate: “Bring home Margaritas to celebrate.”

Vic looked at the screen and felt it again, that thing in his chest. Like he was right on the edge of something. He closed the laptop. Time for a smoko.

Pia put her phone down, trying hard to remember if she'd ever told Vic that she fuccing hated frozen Margaritas, but she fuccing loved the old-fashioned style with salt on the rim of the glass and everything.

"Maybe we should have Tequila Sunrises instead. I can buy some oranges."

Her phone beeped, a message from Alex, full of randomly enthusiastic CamelCase, bad spelling, and emojis. They agreed to meet at FBI Gaming City, another cybercafé nearby GeekStar where they had done the hard drive heist. Pia wanted to blend in with gamer... "You can't call it chic. What did I wear last time? Something Studio Ghibli." She assembled an outfit combining her Louboutin sneakers, a pair of boyfriend jeans, her Soot Sprite tee-shirt, and a faux biker jacket in dark brown leather. It was slightly too smart but it would have to do. At least it went with her taupe nails.

Pia slapped on her signature Marimekko bucket hat and pulled it down low. A mustard yellow nylon Uniqlo shoulder bag, half-moon shaped and roomy, did service for all her baggage. It was embroidered with emblems of Paris, New York, London, and Tokyo. A glass of red wine and the Eiffel Tower, I Heart NY and the Empire State building, a Mind The Gap roundel and a double-decker bus, the Hinomaru rising over Mount Fuji.

Stepping out of the front door, the first thing she saw was Renée. Pia rocked back on her heels. Metaphorically speaking, as she was in flats.

"Bonjour, Renée, ca va?"

Renée Moreau stood beneath the climbing jasmine on the communal front wall, pruning clippers in one gloved hand and a suspiciously healthy sprig of rosemary in the other. She looked like she'd stepped out of a vintage film set; wide-legged cream trousers, a red-striped Breton top, and a silk scarf holding back her silver-streaked dark curls. Her lipstick was perfectly matched to the cherry tomatoes in her hanging planters.

She turned at the sound of Pia’s voice, one brow arching theatrically.

“Ma petite tornade,” she said, smiling. “Do I smell Guerlain and fabric softener, or is that just your aura today?”

Pia adjusted the strap of her sacoche, unsure if she was about to be complimented or interrogated. Renée had a way of making compliments feel like gentle traps.

“Neither,” Pia said, “It’s my ‘I’m going to infiltrate a gamer café’ ensemble. What do we think? Undercover enough?”

Renée gave her an up-and-down appraisal with a wine critic’s seriousness.

“Très bien. You look like a pop star slumming it for research. The shoes are wasted on linoleum, but I respect the commitment.” She snipped the rosemary with a flourish and tucked it into Pia’s bag. “For good luck. Or perhaps for soup.”

Pia grinned, relaxing. “Thank you. Also, have I ever told you how much I hate frozen Margaritas?”

Renée tilted her head, amused. “No, but I agree completely. You must be sure to instruct Victor.”

There was a pause, just long enough for Pia to feel the weight of the unspoken things. Renée had seen Vic leave that morning. She had probably noted the laundry drying on the balcony, men's socks and boxer shorts flapping side by side with Pia’s bralettes and Brazilian knickers.

“You know,” Renée said more softly, “there are worse things than letting someone like that in.”

Pia blinked. “Are we still talking about tequila?”

Renée smirked. “Always. And love. But mostly tequila. Perhaps.”

A tram chimed from the high street like a doorbell from a parallel universe. Pia took it as her cue.

“I’ve got to go and meet a nerd. Is your invitation still open for tonight?”

“Of course. Six thirty sharp. French punctuality.”

Pia gave a casual salute and headed for the tram station, her heart giving a sideways beat like it always did after an unexpectedly tender exchange. Renée was a meddler, but an elegant one.

*Letting someone in,* she thought, as her trainers slapped the pavement. *That’s not the hard part. It’s convincing myself it’s safe to keep them around.*

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 43: Jump Cut to FBI Gaming City

FBI Gaming City was like GeekStar’s cooler cousin who went to an EDM club and never came home. LED panels blinked moodily above banks of high-end PCs. A lo-fi synth remix of the Neo Genesis Evangelion theme played softly as BGM. Someone was talking over a Discord speech channel in Tagalog. The air smelt of Mountain Dew and powdered cheese.

The café's name struck a chord. Pia had dealt with FBI guys professionally. Raised on the heady propaganda of American exceptionalism, they were often full of themselves. So-called 'Special Agents'. Though the FBI induction course at Quantico was no longer than a simple British Bobby got, and included a lot more weapon drills and less police technique.

*But the best of them actually are good,* she thought. *Whatever. This isn't an op. Unless it is.*

She ordered an iced latte and a croissant, and took a seat where she could pretend to use a computer but actually observe the flow of clientele. The footage from GeekStar had taught her how to zero in on the crucial scenes, the tell-tale behaviour.

Someone was dealing some kind of gamer gak. Pia didn’t know what, because she played enough Tetris with her jewellery box and her shoe cupboard not to need to wrangle pixels or cards as a distraction from real life. That's why she had tapped Alex’s shoulder.

Pia, camouflaged in her too-smart leather jacket, Soot Sprite tee and Louboutin sneakers, looked exactly like someone who had lost a bet on how to dress for a virtual LAN party on Twitch. She watched a girl with bubblegum-pink pigtails refill a gacha machine near the entrance. She sipped her disappointing iced latte and didn't even bother to pretend to enjoy the even more disappointing croissant. If she was still a detective, she would have arrested the pastry supplier.

Then the door opened, and in bounced Alex. He tried to saunter like a seasoned operative but it came off as puppy cute. He was trying very hard to look suave. Pia could see it in the way he adjusted his army surplus backpack like it was a gun holster, and how he kept one AirPod in, mimicking a low-level Bond villain on one of those set piece missions, a sniper at the opera. His hair was curled just so, but the effect was more golden retriever who discovered mousse than mysterious hacker prince. He spotted Pia, lit up like a Christmas tree, and half-sprinted over.

“Agent Viola,” he said, sliding into the seat beside her. “I’m reporting for caffeinated surveillance and digital archaeology.”

Pia raised an eyebrow. “You know you look twelve years old, right?”

Alex smirked, entirely undeterred. “Twelve and a half, thank you. Also, I wore black jeans for intimidation.”

She reached for her laptop. “Alright, gamer boy. Let’s see if you can tell me what my mystery hoodie guy was trading, because I’ve got a feeling it’s more than just duty free cigarettes.”

Alex leaned in. “You brought the clip?”

Pia nodded, cueing it up. “Here’s where he inserts the USB stick. His PC screen spikes up with stuff for about a minute. Can’t see that too well. Then later, watch this, he changes his hoodie in the loo and leaves in a button-down shirt and sunnies. Sleeves rolled down to hide any tattoos. Classic simple disguise. I’d do something like that myself. He’s fast, but he doesn’t alter the way he walks, so he’s not that good.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Okay… yeah. The first clip. He’s not playing a game. The screen was showing some kind of more like text based nonsense. Could be digital currency. Could be off-book game asset trading. Could be enhancement scripts. If he’s selling cheat mods, that’d explain the short timeframe.”

Pia looked at him blankly.

Alex translated. “He’s probably a dealer. Not for drugs. For cheat codes.”

“Ça me fait chier! Selling cheat codes in a game café? That's childish. But smart. The right marketplace. Customers on tap.”

“More than that,” Alex said. “If he’s uploading or downloading scripts from a remote server, he’s probably got an encrypted bridge to some kind of darknet marketplace. Or a relay server to make him hard to trace.”

“Like a VPN routed through Estonia, perhaps? Could you trace him?”

Alex gave a gleeful smile, full of purpose. “With this footage and some good guesswork? Hell yeah. Give me an hour. And a chocolate milkshake.”

Pia dashed to the snack counter.

“One chocolate milkshake, please. And make it dangerous.”

The afternoon sun hit the office windows at just the wrong angle, lighting up Vic's face so he could see it in his monitor. He stared at himself for a hot minute, wondering if maybe the light was lying, or if he really did have that many lines around his eyes. Probably from squinting at terminal logs and pretending to care about containerisation metrics.

He clicked half-heartedly through a Jira board. Tickets were ranked up like bored sentries. Backend sync delay. Automated test failure. Refactor authentication module. He flagged three, reassigned one, and then just… Stopped.

A tab to the side still held Pia’s last message.

“Bring home Margaritas to celebrate!”

She looked electric when she said stuff like that, alive with enthusiasm, totally present with her joy and empathy. Vic tried to imagine a world where he felt that way about any of this. He didn't hate his job. He’d just outgrown it. Like a favourite outfit that had gone irretrievably out of style. It used to feel like something special; flexibility, remote working, a team that let him surf sometimes on weekdays as well as at weekends. And there was a lot of good stuff there. But now it felt more like a safety net he’d wrapped around himself out of fear. Maybe he’d been coasting. Okay, not maybe. Definitely. Surfing and running stats and writing tidy code and making peace with the fact that his longest relationship had ended with a low-key dumping instead of a radioactive eruption.

Then Pia had happened.

The thing was, she saw him. Even when she was off chasing CCTV shadows or turning bar stools into confessionals, she made him feel like he mattered. Not for his job title. Not for his calm or his abs or his ability to parallel park. Just for being Victor.

His Slack pinged again. Message from Arun.

“you good man? you kinda checked out since lunch. not judging, just vibing.”

Vic considered typing back “Existential crisis, nothing urgent.” Instead, he wrote:

“@Arun: all good. brain on low power mode. maybe time for a proper holiday. or a career rethink.”

Arun’s typing bubble appeared instantly.

“goggle eyes goggle eyes goggle eyes lol you going full Olympe on us? gonna run off and become a cyber monk?”

Vic stared at that. Not because he was offended. But because, yeah, Pia probably would run off and become a cyber monk if the mood struck her.

And maybe that’s what he loved about her.

*Is it too early to call it love?* he wondered, then immediately told himself to calm down. *It’s only Wednesday.*

A knock on his cubicle wall pulled him out of the spiral. Olivia, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

“Victor. Got a minute?”

He nodded, heart rate spiking instinctively.

She sat on the edge of his desk like a school principal about to have a serious talk with a student. “No drama. Just… be honest. Are you still happy here?”

That caught him off guard. “I, uh. Yeah. Mostly.”

She studied him. “You’ve been a good egg all through the SPOODER mess. But something tells me your head’s in a different space now. If you’re looking around, I’d rather you said it and don't blindside me.”

He hesitated. “I’m not looking. Yet.”

“But maybe thinking,” she said, standing again. “Fair enough. Sometimes people outgrow a role and need a new challenge. You’re one of the few people around here who can think out how to tackle an issue without needing a PowerPoint deck for a walkthrough. I’d like to keep you if I can. Let’s talk about some enhancements to your role. New responsibilities. I’ll put something in Calendar.”

Vic watched her walk off, then turned back to his screen, his brain suddenly humming again.

*Woah!*

Chapter 44: They Could be Deckbuilding

Alex was getting all hopped up about the USB stick when Pia clocked the real exchange.

"Alex, it's not the digital stuff. Look!" She froze the frame, tapped the screen with a nail that shone like taupe justice. "This dude is passing cards for cash. I mean like playing cards, wrapped up in plastic sleeves as if they were mint grade gold coins. The business with the USB is a double-blind. You do a deal in a game café, and people are going to think it’s digital, so they'll try to do a network trace, follow up on the cyber side, but in fact it's actually physical items. What kinds of cards are valuable?"

Alex paused mid-sip of his milkshake, which he had just proudly declared to be ‘double malted, triple threat, full throttle’. His upper lip was moustached with cocoa froth. Now his eyes laser-locked on the paused video where Pia’s polished finger tapped the frozen moment of truth.

“You’re kidding,” he said, leaning forward so quickly that his AirPod fell out. “That’s a physical hand-off. The USB was just misdirection. Holy hell, you’re good.”

Pia didn’t blink. “I’m right.”

On screen, hoodie-guy palmed a fan of small clear card sleeves under the table to a lanky teen in a Monash hoodie, who slid him a folded wad of notes with the speed of a mongoose. The interaction lasted all of five seconds. No handshake. No nod. Pure transactional ballet.

Alex rewound it, then wound it forward again, frame by frame. “Okay, yeah. Those are definitely trading game cards. You can tell by the protective sleeves. And the way the buyer checks the corners before he pockets them? That’s pure collector twitch. That’s value.”

Pia leant back, eyes narrowing. “So, not game mods. Not cheat codes. Physical inventory. What kind of cards are worth folding money like that? Pokémon?”

Alex snorted. “Pokémon, definitely. Some of the first editions are worth more than a car. But there’s more.” He began listing on his fingers like an excitable professor.

“Magic: The Gathering. Still massive. Some Black Lotuses are worth tens of thousands, especially if they’re Alpha prints. Yu-Gi-Oh, especially rare Japanese prints or misprints. Like super rare postage stamps. Digimon’s back. Weirdly. Also… MetaZoo. Flesh and Blood. One Piece. Even Disney Lorcana, which only just dropped a couple of years ago and has crazy resale prices.”

Pia blinked. “There’s a card game called Flesh and Blood?”

Alex grinned. “It’s not as creepy as it sounds. Actually, it’s relatively wholesome.”

She nodded her head, mulling it over. “Okay, so this guy’s not hacking. He’s selling collectible trading cards. A strictly cash business. The café is a perfect rendezvous. Lots of gamers come here. It makes things look digital so no one thinks to trace the physical flow.”

“Misdirection,” Alex nodded. “Like a stage magician using a pigeon to hide a rabbit.” He frowned, suddenly serious. “But what does it mean?”

Pia exhaled slowly, her eyes closed as she thought. “I don’t know yet. But it’s interesting.” She flipped open her notebook and scribbled timestamps, noting the buyer’s description, even their preferred brand of trainer. “We need to trace the buyer,” she said. “Forget Mr Hoodie for now. He’s clever. Slippery. But buyers? They’re careless. They always come back. They make patterns which are easy to follow.”

Alex stared at her with open admiration. “You’re not just good,” he whispered. “You’re, like, Interpol-good.”

Pia did a double take. "How did you know I worked for Interpol, Alex?" She shook her head. "I didn't say that. Now, about these cards. Do people really pay that much money for a game card? I find it hard to believe, even though I've just seen it. But what if they were counterfeit? There's a lot of physical security built into official coins and banknotes, and they get copied. How about a rare Pokémon card?"

Alex froze, mid-scroll on a local Discord server, and looked up at her, eyes suddenly wide. “Wait, you actually worked for Interpol?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just asked how I knew you worked for… ” He stopped himself. “Okay. Yeah. Cool. Definitely not worth dying for. Please don’t make me disappear.”

Pia smiled thinly and tapped the screen, refocusing the conversation. “Look, Alex. The cards. You’re my expert consultant on them.”

Alex exhaled in relief, then shifted back into geek-mode. “Right. Yes. People absolutely pay real money for these things. We’re talking life savings, insurance claims, startup capital. That kind of money.”

He swivelled his laptop toward her and pulled up a recently sold listing.

“Here, Pokémon Illustrator Pikachu, 1998 promo. Mint grade. Sold for $5.2 million last year.”

Pia blinked. “That card must have been designed before my father smiled a special let’s have another baby smile at my mother. I’ve never felt so old.”

“Same,” Alex agreed. “Some Magic: The Gathering cards have legit been used as down payments on houses. And the market’s got weirder since COVID, more scarcity, more obsession, and a lot more fraud.”

She leaned into the hypothesis. “That’s what I’m thinking. Counterfeits. If someone’s printing solid fakes, they need a place to fence them, somewhere loud and anonymous, like a gamer café.”

Alex nodded, eyes gleaming. “Exactly. The visual fidelity on a high-end printer can get crazy good. And for ultra-rare cards, just the sleeve is enough to make people hesitate to examine them too closely. If the seller’s charming enough, they could pass through a dozen hands before someone even suspects.”

“But they’d need good quality fake provenance too, wouldn't they?” Pia asked. “Something to make it look legit.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “You can forge PSA grades, those are the numeric condition ratings, or create fake grading labels. Some people even steal serial numbers off legit listings to mask the fakes. There’s a whole subculture around spotting them. It’s wild.”

She fingertip massaged her temples, then looked back at the buyer on the footage. “If we can identify this kid, and he tries to resell that card, or gets caught with a fake, he could lead us back to hoodie-boy and from him we might work our way to the up-stream supplier.”

Alex leaned back. “Viola, if you were still not working for Interpol, I’d totally want to join your team.”

Pia pulled her white bucket hat right down over her eyes. "I'm too old for this. And I'm only 27. The prime of my life." She rallied with a deep draw of her now rather de-iced and therefore watery coffee. "Okay, Alex. I accept your valuations even if I think the whole thing is flying rodent gak crazy. Which, given that people trade high value wine, you're supposed to drink it, and it goes off eventually if you don't…” She paused, remembering another weird crime. “You know, I read about a whisky counterfeiting scandal last year. Actually I'm sure you're right." She gathered her stuff. "I need to regroup and think about what to do. Don't tell anyone about this, Alex. And thank you. Let me know what game you want next. Or another doll. Just message me."

The odd pair slipped out of the gamer café and went their separate ways. Outside, the light had shifted into that honey colour afternoon glow that made even dodgy streets look cinematic.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 45: Bottle Shop Dilemma

Pia emerged from the pixellated haze of FBI Gaming City feeling like she'd been swimming in teenage hormones and overpriced plastic. Her bucket hat shaded her eyes, but it couldn’t shield her from an odd feeling creeping over her.

*This used to be easier,* she thought. *Or maybe I used to care less. Or maybe… I’m supposed to have put all this behind me. Given up detecting. And just be me, a girl in the world. Like I told Vic.*

Alex offered a hopeful wave, still bouncing with endorphins and caffeinated chocolate, before he peeled off toward the tram stop, phone already out, probably opening a dozen subreddits to chase their Monash hoodie ghost.

Pia stood there a moment longer, laptop bag slung under one arm, the ghosts of counterfeit Pikachus flickering behind her eyes.

*I need to regroup,* she thought again. *I need gin.*

She glanced at her watch. Vic would bring limes and, Goddess help her, probably foil bags of frozen margarita mix because he’d never been properly trained. Still, he’d show up. That was the thing about Vic. He wasn’t perfect, but he was reliable. And no-one actually was perfect. She start to walk, each step bringing her closer to the Jacaranda breeze of home, and hopefully an evening with people who didn’t need to understand counterfeit markets or legacy crime rings.

*I’m in the prime of my life, and I need a proper cocktail.*

Pia flagged down a cab, her transit energy temporarily drained by the weirded out afternoon with Alex and his game card revelations. "I wonder how Vic's day has been?"

Vic had left the office earlier than usual, head full of Olivia’s half-warning/half-plea, Arun’s emoji-riddled messages, and one particularly aggressive fantasy where he quit his job mid-sprint and dived into a surfboard repair apprenticeship. Instead, he’d compromised with a stop at the bottle shop. He stared at the shelf of margarita mixers like it had personally insulted him.

*Frozen or classic? She didn’t specify. Do people still drink them frozen? She said, "Bring margaritas". Was that a command or a dare?*

Eventually he picked up a bottle of proper triple sec, a bag of limes, and a decent blanco tequila. *Classic it is,* he decided, hoping he wasn’t wrong.

Now he was cruising through the side streets of Bondi Junction, windows open, his hair fluttering in the wind. The old Audi’s transmission groaned slightly every time it shifted, and the cabin smelt faintly of hot engine and spilled chips, but Pia had ridden in it without complaint about the fragrance. Though the mechanical noise ticked her off quite badly. And she refused to put anything on the floor except her feet.

His phone was tucked in the cupholder. He glanced down at the screen -- no messages -- and felt a little flicker of pre-evening nerves. Pia usually sent him selfies quite often. Her running in silent mode wasn’t necessarily a good sign. It might indicate she had found another dubious quest to pursue.

The cab dropped Pia outside her condo as the sun leant toward the horizon, painting everything in dusty orange. She stepped out in her too-cool-for-school outfit, bucket hat and all, and stood for a moment in the street, taking in the ambiance.

She trotted up to her unit, dropped her bags, and unlaced her Louboutin trainers with a sigh. The flat felt almost too still. Her energy from earlier, generated by her successful video trawl, and the formation of the card theory, had fizzled into a strange kind of tiredness. She stripped off her geek disguise and put on a simple swing minidress, sleeveless, with a boat neck, in red linen. It left her scars in view, but Pia no longer cared what people might think. They were part of her for good or ill. She thought about Vic as she redid her makeup.

The doorbell rang.

"Hello, Bae! How was your day? That's actual poetry because it rhymed," Pia grinned, as she clocked Vic's bag of bottles and ushered him into the flat. It was nearly 18:30. "You're right on time because I accepted an invitation from Renée for 18:00. Don't unpack, just bring the whole bag. I'll grab my melons. Lemons. Oranges. Where are the limes? Did you get the limes?” Pia hustled Vic because actually even French punctuality had a limit.

Vic blinked at Pia’s flurry of words and movement, bag still in his arms, unsure if she’d just called him a fruit, or professed deep longing.

“Wait, we’re, okay. Yes. Melons. Lemons. Limes. I got them.”

He followed her around the flat as she darted between kitchen and hallway like a cartoon whirlwind with a swirling skirt. It smelled like clean laundry and citrus and her, and even in the rush, Vic felt a tingle of domestic warmth.

He held up the bag. “I got the good stuff. No slush, promise. Triple sec, tequila, limes.”

“Perfect. You passed the first test,” she said, snatching up her keys and checking her eyeliner in the mirror with a squint. “Renée expects glamour. Or chaos. Ideally both.”

Vic ran a hand through his hair and looked down at his outfit. “I’m glam-adjacent. Chaos-ready.”

The buzzer echoed once and the door flew open with suspicious immediacy, as if Renée had been poised in wait like a hostess panther. “Bonsoir, mes amours,” she purred. She was dressed in a flowing navy silk maxi dress and a pair of absurdly high clogs that somehow made her seem taller than Vic. Her earrings looked like small chandeliers.

Renée checked Pia first, approved her dress with a nod, then landed on Vic with a sly up-and-down sweep. She clocked the bottle bag. “Ah, Victor,” she said, purring his name. “Bearing offerings. You are well-trained.”

“I live in fear,” he said politely.

Renée stepped back, letting them in with the grace of a high priestess. The scent of saffron and garlic wafted down the hallway. Edith Piaf floated from the stereo.

The front room glowed with candlelight and quiet mischief. Two guests were perched on low stools with tall glasses, Camille, draped in vintage denim and velvet, and a man Pia didn’t recognise, young and nervous-looking, with excellent cheekbones and a sage green blazer. His looks screamed intern at a film studio.

"Camille!" Pia smiled with genuine pleasure, stepped forward, and gave the French woman 'la bise'. "Quelle tenue tu portes ! Jalouse, moi." Turning to the young possible auteur. "Bonsoir, monsieur. Olympe.” She touched her heart. “Ceci c'est mon copain, Victor." It was obvious who she meant.

Camille rose with a liquid ease, her velvet flaring slightly as she returned Pia’s double kiss with perfect accuracy, just the barest brush of cheek and a whisper of perfume.

“Ma chère,” she said, stepping back with a warm little smirk, “Tu dis que tu es jalouse, mais je t'ai vue en petite robe noire, et maintenant, voila ton tonnerre rouge.” She winked at Vic. “I see you survived another day in tech hell. Pia didn’t burn your building down?”

“Not today,” Vic replied, setting the bottle bag gently on the sideboard and catching Pia’s eye.

The young man with the film-student cheekbones had scrambled to his feet as Pia turned her attention toward him. He was holding a wine glass by the stem like it was his first time doing so.

“Bonsoir,” he said, immediately losing the plot. “I mean, bonsoir, mademoiselle. Enchanté… de vous… I’m, uh, Timothy.” His accent was perfect Sydney: bright, nervy, eager.

Camille suppressed a laugh behind her glass. “He’s one of my students,” she explained. “From my screenwriting workshop. He wrote a noir about pigeons and grief. It nearly broke my brain.”

Timothy ran a hooked finger round his collar, visibly mortified. “It’s a short film,” he said quickly, “and the pigeons aren’t literal.”

“Too late,” Camille said. “Olympe will now imagine nothing but literal pigeons.”

Pia, delighted, gave Timothy a warm smile as Vic stepped forward to shake the poor boy’s hand with friendly ease.

“Olympe’s not as scary as she looks, mate,” Vic said. “She’s worse.”

Renée, from the kitchen pass-through, called out, “Victor, darling, there is tequila and triple sec. Make us something absolutely sinful to drink.”

Vic gave Pia a look of mock accusation. “This was a trap.”

“I told you Renée expects glam and chaos,” she smiled back.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 46: Crimes against Gastronomy

"Timothy? I bet everyone calls you Timmo." Pia looked the boy up and down. "If you're a native son. I'm from the UK. And France. Where do you come from?"

Timothy flushed a bit deeper under Pia’s gaze, shifting from foot to foot like a man standing in a moving tram.

“Uh, yeah,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “people do call me Timmo. My uncle still calls me ‘Tiny Tim’ though, which is traumatising, so Timmo’s not bad in comparison.”

“Timmo’s nice,” Pia said, in her ringing Pom accent. “I like it.”

Camille rolled her eyes fondly and refilled her glass with the poise of a woman used to watching boys flail.

“Yeah so I grew up in Ryde,” Timmo went on, “but I’m living in Marrickville now. Share house. Weird housemates. One of them runs a kombucha side hustle and keeps fermenting things in the laundry.”

“That’s Sydney,” Vic said, slicing a lime with surgical focus. “You’re not a real local until someone’s pickling something next to your underpants.”

Timmo nodded, grateful for the lifeline.

"Kombucha is bs," Pia seethed, her face suddenly a demon mask. "The real thing from Japan is absolutely nothing to do with that fizzy stuff in supermarkets. Which frankly is just a low key version of alcopops. Which themselves are basically flavoured cider. I mean the hard stuff. British. Or Swedish. Kopparberg. Maybe with cheap vodka added."

It was completely unclear where this outburst had come from. Probably the mental strain of the last few weeks, involving Vic's corporate peril, which Pia had precipitated, and now her secret discovery of a counterfeit Pokemon card smuggling ring.

"And don't get me started on Katsu Curry!" she went on.

The room froze for a millisecond, the time required for every person present to silently question whether Pia had just declared war on kombucha and the global curry industry.

Camille raised her eyebrows slowly, as if watching a small, controlled detonation go off in an art gallery.

Renée didn’t miss a beat. She plucked a fig from the tray and dropped it into her mouth, chewing with the aplomb of a woman who’d survived a dinner party where three people confessed to the same affair at the same time.

Timmo looked at Pia like she’d kicked over a sacred bonsai.

“Kombucha is a kind of tea made with seaweed,” Pia explained. “Kombu is the name of the seaweed and cha means tea. I don’t know how the name got stolen and attached to that fizzy drink. Which I have never tasted! I strongly suspect it has something to do with the Russians.”

She was pacing up and down.

“The same with katsu curry. Katsu means cut or cutlet. Ton means pig. Tonkatsu means a pork cutlet. Usually coated in breadcrumbs and served deep fried, often with a curry sauce, hence katsu curry. But nowadays literally everything vaguely Japanese and curry adjacent gets badged up as katsu. I’ve got pictures. Proper clues! I’ll show you.”

Pia began to swipe through photos on her phone, evidence she had obsessively gathered of this crime against gastronomy; Chicken katsu curry, katsu curry flavour crisps, tinned katsu sauce, and katsu curry instant noodles, zipped under her accusing thumb, either packages on supermarket shelves, or menu items in restaurants.

“Just look at this! A Detroit deep pan pinsa pizza with katsu curry chicken topping!!! Ma déese! Quel espèce de merde. Donc, un bordel!”

Every image had been carefully composed, focussed, filtered for exposure and white balance, and cropped to a standard square format, as if ready for a fashion spread.

Timmo’s mouth sagged open.

Camille turned to him, utterly composed. “She’s French and British. This is normal.”

Timmo, his face a study in confused reverence, whispered, “Do you, er, do you have a food podcast?”

Vic appeared, brandishing a cocktail shaker and wearing a look of amused caution. “Emergency margarita deployment incoming. Someone hold Pia’s hat.”

Renée lifted a delicate coupe glass as if summoning a butler. “Merci, Victor. I hope you made it heavy on the tequila. I feel a salon topic rising like an approaching thunderstorm.”

Camille leant forward, eyes glinting. “Alright then. Let’s do it. What’s a truly unforgivable culinary crime?”

Pia replied without missing a beat, “Scrambled eggs. They’re nothing but a badly screwed up omelette. Prove me wrong.”

Vic handed her a drink and saluted. “There’s no answer to that. Long live the queen.”

Pia sat down, sipping her drink in silence, her sharp eyes softening.

Renée, who never let a perfect beat go to waste, turned with feline grace to Camille. “Chérie, I believe the floor is yours.”

Camille looked over the rim of her wine glass and smiled like a woman about to toss a lit match into a pool of inflammable liquid.

“That’s food dismissed,” she said, stretching out her legs, “Let me tell you something about parfum. It is the time my brother almost married a woman because he mistook a bottle of Chanel No. 5 for emotional compatibility.”

Timmo blinked. “Wait… what?”

“It was the scent,” Camille said, as if this were self-explanatory. “She wore it constantly. You could smell her before you saw her. He met her at a gallery. She was explaining postmodernism badly to a man who looked like an extra from Wall Street. My brother thought she was luminous. Mysterious. A little tragic.”

Vic had stopped moving behind the bar, fully drawn in. Pia didn’t move, just watched Camille with a faint smile, like a one cat watching another take over the garden wall.

“She had a voice like cigarette smoke,” Camille continued. “They dated for six weeks. He said he felt like he was in a perfume ad. Rain-slick streets. Champagne. Meaningful eye contact in shop windows. But she never really said anything. She didn’t have to. She had the scent.”

Renée chuckled. “What happened?”

Camille shrugged. “The perfume ran out. It turns out she’d borrowed it from a flatmate for a first date and kept secretly using it. When she finally bought her own bottle, she chose something else. He kissed her goodnight and said, ‘You feel different.’ They broke up two days later.”

A hush fell over the room. Even Timmo didn’t breathe.

“She’s a model now,” Camille added, sipping again. “My brother lives with a maths teacher and drives a Subaru. He says it was the best breakup of his life.”

Renée leant back, thoroughly delighted. “So many men confuse scent with longing.”

“Or branding,” Camille murmured. “He loved the idea of her. He just didn’t check for substance.”

Pia gulped her Margarita. The candles flickered. Vic caught her eye across the room.

Pia began to cry. "That's so sad. Camille, you are a poetess but please don't tell us more unhappy verses. Perfume is important. The secret of Chanel no.5 is the formaldehyde process. Or something.” She drained her glass and handed it back to Vic.

“Perfume is sacred!” she went on. “I once found a boy in my room late at night. I pointed my pistol at him, but I didn't shoot him, because he was standing in front of the dressing table. If the bullet had gone through his chest, it might have hit my bottle of Creed Erolfa."

They wondered if Olympe really had a pistol, or if this was just some story she had made up for the sake of drama. But ‘in vino, veritas’. What happened to that boy?

"Anyway, I threw him out of the window into the snow, and the next time I visited Paris I bought a half litre bottle."

The room held its breath, caught somewhere between stunned amusement and something deeper.

Camille set down her glass with a slow, deliberate clink, eyes scanning Pia’s tear-damp lashes with a curious tenderness. “Mon dieu,” she said softly. “You really are a novel in heels.”

Renée, standing near the stereo, gave a little sigh that was half affection, half quiet alarm. “Darling, you can’t just throw someone out of a window and then pivot to perfume shopping. Even in Paris.”

“It was only the first floor,” Pia replied, brushing her cheek with the back of her hand like it was an afterthought. “And I didn’t actually shoot him.”

Vic had already moved. Not dramatically, he just left the cocktail shaker on the sideboard and crossed to her in a few quiet steps, placing a gentle hand on her back, warm and steady through her dress. He didn’t say anything.

She didn’t look up at him. But she didn’t pull away.

Timmo glanced between Camille and Renée like someone desperately scanning for subtitles. “Wait, was this a dream? Is this one of those symbolic stories or…?”

“She’s telling the truth,” Camille said quietly, not looking away from Pia. “The scene was real.”

There was a hush.

Renée laughed gently, moving to pour Pia another drink. “Eh bon. Then we toast. To Creed Erolfa. To sacred perfume. And to the women who make it home with their bottles intact.”

Everyone raised their glasses, even Timmo, who still looked faintly traumatised.

Vic bent his head slightly, close enough that Pia could feel his breath at her temple.

“You okay?” he murmured.

Pia gave the tiniest nod.

“Balcony,” she said softly.

Pia leant out carefully. It was only the first floor, so she felt safe enough to enjoy the crisp mid-winter night air. The traffic on the M1 was a distant hum, partially masked by Blue Note jazz from Renée's sound system. She took another mouthful of her fresh drink.

"I'm sorry, Vic. I'm in a mood. It was a first floor window. He fell into a hedge and no harm was done. We even became friends later, believe it or not. You know how much I like Erolfa. I wear it nearly every day."

She drank again.

"The gun had a laser sight. You know, the kind of green beam. It's very effective for intimidating people."

The sky was glowing with reflected city light.

"Will you hold me?"

Vic didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he stepped in behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist with the kind of calm that said I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. His cheek came to rest just below her ear, and for a moment they stood like that, her braced against the balustrade, him folded on to her back like a windbreaker against the cold.

She felt the sigh rise through him before she heard it.

“I’m not worried about the gun,” he murmured. “Or the hedge. Or the Erolfa. Well, maybe a little about the Erolfa. That stuff’s expensive.”

Pia gave a soft huff of laughter, warm and close.

“I’m just worried about you,” he added. “Because you’re brilliant and sharp and full of stories like sci-fi fairy tales scratched out on a stucco wall with a piece of broken glass. Only they're true.”

He pressed a kiss, his lips soft against her cheek.

“And you pretend they don’t hurt anymore.” He hugged her. “You don’t have to hold it all on your own.”

The western sky had gone the indigo it always did in winter, slashed across with coral-pink clouds like someone had tried to paint dusk and left the job half-done. There came a jet airliner just out of the airport, its navigation lights a red/green blink in the heavens. Another kind of laser.

Vic held her a little tighter.

“I’ve got you.”

For a long moment, they stayed just like that. No talking. Pia leant back into Vic's embrace, her body relaxing in the compass of his strong arms. She held his hands against her belly, her female core which held the power of new life.

"Another of my faults is that sometimes I drink more than I ought to. I'll switch to fruit juice now, Vic. Let's go back to the party. I have to make things up to poor Timmo. I may flirt with him a little. Don't get jealous, it means nothing. Actually, you can get jealous if you want, then you can reclaim me for yours later."

She drew his hand up over her breast and gave it a little squeeze. She turned around and kissed Vic, then took his hand to lead him back inside.

Vic met her kiss without hesitation, his lips warm, steady, tasting faintly of lime and sea salt. When she pulled back, her eyes had a golden glint that gave him a quiet ache. He squeezed her hand.

“You can flirt with Timmo,” he said, his voice low and amused. “But only if I get to scare him slightly when I top up his drink.”

Pia smiled and stepped through the doorway, pulling Vic back into the glow and murmur of the salon.

The mood had softened to a warm buzz. Camille was telling a story that involved stray goats, an expired visa, and a Norwegian man named Lars, while Renée refilled glasses with practised elegance. The jazz had shifted to something smoky and slow with a crooning baritone sax in it.

Timmo looked up when Pia re-entered, his posture perking just enough to betray that he was still, against all sense, a little in awe of her.

Pia moved with renewed grace now, softer, looser, buoyed by Vic’s presence behind her. Vic smiled as he followed her, knowing she was a storm sometimes, but he was the one she would circle back to. The one she trusted to stand in the wind with her, and anchor her.

Whatever tonight became, stories, jokes, flirtations, he knew what came next. He’d be the one to hold her coat when she got too warm. He’d be the one to walk her home. He’d be the one she curled up against, beneath the scent of salt and Erolfa.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 47: The Gernsback Continuum

Pia left the warmth of Vic's arms and stepped back inside. Everyone pretended not to notice. She smiled and headed to the bathroom to check her make-up. She looked at herself in the mirror, thinking about her intention to flirt with Timmo.

*It’s a stupid idea. That's how I’ve got myself into trouble more than once. It worked when I was a hostess in Tokyo because the Japanese know the rules of the game. It doesn't always work with western guys. Unless they're gay.*

So Pia shelved the plan, grabbed a glass of iced orange juice, and approached her target casually.

"Tell me more about your film noir, Timmo. I like film noir. Don't leave out the pigeons. I'm fully prepared to believe in imaginary pigeons. After all, imaginary things are real, they simply lack the property of existence."

Timmo played with his half-empty wine glass, blinking like he wasn’t sure he’d heard Pia correctly, but he rallied with the eager spark of a student whose eccentric professor had asked a question way outside the textbook.

“Oh, um, yeah. Okay. So it’s called Bird in the Frame. That’s the working title. It’s set in an unnamed city, kind of art deco and crumbling, and the main character is a private detective who’s just been released from a psychiatric hospital. He’s trying to solve a case that he doesn’t remember taking.”

He gestured vaguely, like the idea was hovering above the tray of canapés on the kitchen peninsula. “The pigeons started as a visual motif. He sees them everywhere. Rooftops, power lines, his fire escape. But then they became, like… A stand-in for guilt. Or buried memory. Or surveillance, depending on how you want to read it. My professor said they were a bit too symbolic, but Camille said I should double down.”

From the sofa, Camille called out dryly, “You’re welcome.”

Timmo glanced back at Pia, sheepish and sincere. “The thing is, I never actually say if the pigeons are real. Or if he ever left the hospital. It’s all kind of ambiguous. Dreamlike. Which is probably me covering for plot holes, but, you know, intentional ambiguity.”

He paused, and looked directly into Pia’s eyes for the first time since the pigeon confession.

“I think I like stories where people believe in things that no one else can see.”

"No-one can see the wind, but we all believe in it. Or love. Or Goddess,” Pia pointed out. “Though of course that's not the same category of being. I’m being stupidly glib. You mean like the story with the invisible giant white rabbit. Harvey. I'm genuinely interested in your film, Timmo. You should shoot in South Beach, Miami. The art deco district. It's part of the Gernsback Continuum."

Timmo brightened like a dimmer lamp turned up to full, grateful, surprised, and maybe just a bit flustered by being taken seriously.

“Yes! Harvey, exactly. That’s the vibe. That kind of off-centre viewpoint where you’re not sure if the protagonist is delusional or actually seeing a greater reality than the rest of us. Donnie Darko is kind of a dark version.”

He took a gulp of wine, too fast, and coughed slightly before recovering with a sheepish grin.

“South Beach would be perfect. That pastel rot, you know? Where everything looks beautiful until you realise it’s kind of decaying underneath. I actually wrote a scene where the detective dreams about the city melting into the ocean, and the pigeons float instead of fly.” He paused, suddenly aware he was rambling. But Pia’s eyes held him, steady and unmocking.

“Miami is sinking,” she said, “Or rather the seas are rising. It comes to the same thing, if you live on the tide-line. Those Art Deco streets will be under water soon, and then no more Gernsback city. No Streamline Moderne.”

“I didn’t know anyone still talked about the Gernsback Continuum,” Timmo added, a little softer. “That’s wild. My best friend at film school said it was too niche, like trying to sell an album on cassette. But I think there’s something beautiful in seeing the future through the ruins of a future someone else already imagined.”

He looked at Pia again, more fully now.

“Thank you. For, for not laughing.”

Pia smiled sweetly. Timmo was too cute, so young.

*He hasn't seen the fuccing gak I have.* she thought. *It's soothing, actually. A lot of what I did was to help defend that kind of innocence, in a general way. It’s nice to think I made a bit of a difference.*

"People do still sell albums on cassette, Timmo,” Pia told him. “It’s got trendy again, like vinyl records and rollfilm cameras. Do you know there are pigeons all over London? That’s where I’m from, originally. We call them flying rats because they’re dirty grey and crap on your car and it damages the paint. But if you go to Faringdon, that's a small town near Oxford,” she blithely assumed he would know the geography of the UK, “The pigeons there are different colours, like pink or powder blue."

Timmo blinked, the image slotting into his head like a postcard with a soundtrack. “Pink and powder blue? That’s unreal. Like, almost magical realism but... feathery.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, totally drawn in.

“Do you think they’re dyed? Or just weirdly evolved? I mean, if I saw that in a film I’d think it was a metaphor. Like, something about the ordinary becoming uncanny once you leave the city. London pigeons are grime and noise, but Faringdon pigeons, those are memory pigeons. Dream pigeons.”

He grinned suddenly, looking a little self-conscious. “Sorry. I do that. Get carried away. But I love that you just dropped a setting into my head. I can see it.” There was a quiet moment then, not awkward, but soft. Grateful.

“I don’t know what you do, Olympe,” he said carefully, “but you’ve got the soul of a story-teller. Or a spy. Possibly both.”

Pia could have explained that the local lord had the idea of dyeing the pigeons, basically because he was, let's say rather eccentric. It was more fun to let Timmo speculate, though. She pulled her smartphone out and thumbed up a photo. It showed three Bunny Girls, one in electric blue, one in pale pink, and the tallest in an almost black, navy blue costume. The full works. Bunny ears and high heel shoes in matching colours. The tall one had stuck her tongue out and was winking through a sideways V for Victory sign.

"Tell us a story about this."

Timmo took her phone like someone being handed a clue in a murder mystery. He blinked at the photo, three women in vibrant Bunny Girl costumes, posed mid-laugh, breasts popping, legs like sculpture, energy dialled to eleven. One pale pink, one navy, one electric blue.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I, okay. Wow! This is, this is pure aesthetic chaos.”

He angled the phone to look at the screen from different directions as if it might reveal more secrets.

“Okay. Here’s what I see,” he began, slipping into storyteller rhythm with theatrical gusto. “These three aren’t just nightclub hostesses. They’re undercover agents from rival intelligence agencies, Russian, British, and North Korean, but none of them know who the others really are.”

He pointed to the pink one. “She’s the British one. Codename: Velvet Mirage. Expert in seduction, disguise, and trivia about regional cheeses. She joined MI6 by accident after breaking into their London headquarters looking for a chocolate vending machine.”

Then the one in navy. “She’s the Russian. Codename: Obsidian Echo. Former ballerina turned codebreaker. She once seduced an arms dealer using only eyebrow gestures and a broken wristwatch.”

Finally, the blue. “North Korean. Codename: Azure Lament. Defected while wearing heels in a snowstorm. Specialises in psychological warfare and mixology. Never speaks, but always knows the truth.”

He handed the phone back with a flourish.

“They’re all at the same club tonight because their respective agencies sent them to retrieve a vital flash drive that’s hidden in a glitter bomb cake.”

Timmo leaned back, completely serious now.

“And none of them are ready for the fourth Bunny Girl. The one who’s already stolen it.”

He gave Pia a sly grin. “She wears red.”

"That's brilliant!” Pia exclaimed enthusiastically. “How do you think so fast, Timmo? If you can get that down to an elevator pitch you could get a fat deal with Netflix."

She put the phone away before anyone might notice that the midnight blue Bunny was actually her. She wore long auburn hair in the picture -- it was a wig to conceal a digital wire unit -- and bigger looking breasts than Pia had tonight. The right bra could do amazing things for a girl.

"Camille, will you be sad if your favourite student dumps post-structuralism in favour of a dash for cash?"

Camille, who had been sipping her wine with the air of a satisfied mother cat watching her kittens pounce on metaphorical mice, raised one elegant brow.

“Mon trésor,” she said, swirling her glass lazily, “if he sells out to Netflix and keeps the pigeons, I’ll be proud forever.”

She turned to Timmo and fixed him with a theatrical look of betrayal. “But if you cut the pigeons, especially the powder blue ones, I will haunt your rewrites.”

Timmo, still buoyed by the rush of Pia’s praise and the sparkle of his own absurd pitch, gave a solemn little bow. “No pigeons, no peace. I swear.”

Camille nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now all you need is a working title, a treatment, and enough hubris to survive a development meeting.”

From the corner, Renée called over dryly, “Don’t forget the emotional breakdown over notes from a producer who thinks character arcs are ‘a bit depressing.’”

“Or the feedback form that says ‘Can the pigeons be owls? Owls test better in Denmark,’” Camille added with a grimace of experience.

Everyone laughed, and even Timmo chuckled, with real delight.

Pia watched it all with a little private smile, her secret safe; the glittering memory of mikes in her pearl earrings, and a wire unit taped to the back of her head.

"Character arcs are depressing, though,” she said. “So earnest, that die-cut way the Americans stamp the same plot out of so many different stories. The hero’s journey. The road through danger to redemption. Everything done by the numbers. Real life is messier. I should know. I suppose fiction has to make sense."

Camille turned toward her slowly, smiling like a woman who had turned over a playing card and found it was exactly the one she wanted.

“Et voilà,” she said, raising her glass again. “Now there’s your salon theme. Real life versus the neat little fictions we spoon-feed the masses.”

Timmo looked like he wanted to take notes but was scared it would break the spell.

“Character arcs are comforting,” Renée murmured, crossing her legs with languid elegance. “They’re scaffolding for chaos. You survive heartbreak better when you believe it has structure. A beginning, a middle, and catharsis.”

“But real people don’t always get catharsis,” Camille countered, gesturing lightly toward Pia. “They get PTSD, second marriages, or overpriced therapy.”

Pia shrugged and sipped her juice. “I didn’t say I don’t like stories. I do like stories. I just don’t trust them.”

That silenced the table for a beat. Not heavy, just thoughtful. Camille tilted her head, eyes soft.

“You sound like someone who used to believe in a perfect ending,” she said. “And maybe still wants to.”

Pia glanced toward Vic without even meaning to, and his eyes met hers from where he’d been quietly polishing a coupe glass. He was smiling. Not the big goofy one. The small, real one.

"These days I read a lot of Japanese manga,” Pia announced. “High school and college romcoms. Like ‘Rent-a-Girlfriend’ and ‘Komi Can’t Communicate.’ Not in the original Japanese, I can't read it well enough. English or French editions. I want them to have a happy ending. There's enough real tragedy in the world. Look at True Crime stories. Which personally I can't stand, but they’re very popular. Maybe people are consoled for their life's problems by seeing that other people have suffered much worse.” She sighed. “Actually, that’s why I used to read history. I’m sorry. I seem to be on a depressive streak tonight."

There was some understanding in the room, soft, unspoken. Recognition rather than pity. Camille leant back and gave Pia a look that was surprisingly gentle, her usual edge wrapped in something warm. “We all get those streaks, ma belle. Winston Churchill had his black dog, I believe. The trick is not to let them dye everything else grey.”

Timmo looked moved. “I read manga too,” he said, a bit shyly. “Kimi ni Todoke, Horimiya, that kind of thing. It’s not just the endings, it’s… how kind people can be to each other. Even when they’re awkward, or broken. It’s like, it makes hope feel ordinary. Like something you could actually reach.”

Pia nodded slowly, more touched than she meant to be. "That's exactly it."

Renée stood and began collecting empty glasses with the subtlety of a seasoned hostess guiding the arc of an evening to its close.

“You’re not on a depressive streak,” she said with her usual velvet briskness. “You’re simply too intelligent to lie to yourself about the state of the world. But darling, le monde est pourri, and still we drink margaritas. This is what separates us from the nihilists.”

Camille laughed softly and raised her glass one last time. “To awkward kindness. To pigeons and perfume and manga and memory.”

Timmo clinked. “And the Bunny Girl in red.”

That made Pia smile, even though her throat tightened a little.

Vic’s hand brushed lightly against her back. “Come on,” he murmured just for her ears. “Let’s get out of here before you start quoting Oyasumi Punpun and break the furniture.”

*This has been quite the evening,* Pia thought. *Some of Timmo's shots landed very close to my position. He didn't even think he was firing live ammo.*

"Thank you, Renée, for such a lovely gathering. I'm very sorry for any offence I've caused. I'm going home happy, though, which is all due to your brilliant guests. Vic included."

Renée accepted Pia’s farewell with a gracious tilt of the head and a kiss to both cheeks, her bracelets chiming softly like wind chimes in a warm breeze.

“Ma chérie, you caused just the right amount of offence. Any less and I’d worry you were unwell.” She gave Vic a slow, fond once-over. “And you, tiens-toi bien. She’s gelignite wrapped in gold foil.”

Vic smiled, his hand warm and steady at the small of Pia’s back. “I’m starting to get that.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 48: Plumbing Innuendo

The air was cold now, crisp in that wintery Sydney way that still held the ghost of a warm autumn in its bones. Pia’s heels clicked with quiet purpose. Vic didn’t speak as they walked the few metres home. He just stayed close, his presence quiet and anchoring.

When they reached Pia’s door, she paused with her keys in hand, feeling the buzz of the evening still settling somewhere between her guts and her throat.

“You okay?” Vic asked finally, his voice low.

She turned toward him, seeing the hallway light catch in his eyes. Some of Timmo’s shots had landed close. Really close. Not because he meant to, but because innocence can sometimes be more piercing than intent.

“I’m better,” Pia said softly. “I’m just surprised, sometimes, at how much I hope for things to end well.”

Vic reached for her hand, cradling it rather than holding it. “I want that too,” he said. “For you. For us. Even if it’s messy along the way. Also,” he added, “I will never look at pigeons the same way again.”

That made her give a sharp quick laugh, just once. It felt like a pressure valve releasing. She opened the door.

“If you'd like to come in, there's something I have to show you." She smiled at him with just the corners of her mouth.

Vic didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at her, scrying her mood in the way her smile widened and reached her eyes, which glinted as she ducked her head momentarily, just a centimetre, as if to give him a little nod of encouragement.

“I’d like that,” he said, and stepped inside.

Pia closed the door behind him. The latch clicked with the soft finality of a long day reaching midnight. The flat was dark but familiar, perfumed faintly with lemons and the ghost of Pia’s Creed Erolfa. She didn’t turn on the main lights, just flicked on a couple of standard lamps near the bookcase, casting everything in golden amber and shadows.

Vic stood just inside, his jacket still on, watching her. “You don’t have to show me anything unless you really want to,” he said gently. But he was already listening with his whole body. The way someone does when they know something matters. Whatever this was, she had him. He was there.

Pia activated the sound system and mixed Vic a small Old-fashioned without asking if he wanted it. She drank nothing herself. The music crackled softly to life, a jazz playlist deliberately remastered to sound like old vinyl. Like a record you've played a thousand times because you love it so much. Something moody and mid-paced with a bluesy undercurrent, like heartbreak after dark. Charles Mingus: The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady.

Vic laid his jacket neatly over the back of the sofa and stood by the bookshelf, the Old-fashioned in his hand untouched. Pia went into the spare bedroom to change.

A few minutes later she re-emerged wearing the navy blue Bunny Girl outfit from the photo she had shown Timmo. It still fitted pretty well. She had been a bit plumper in the old days. Not podgy by any means, but Pia had lost some fat and put on muscle in the past four years. It was bad news for her bust, but great for her butt and legs. She struck a pose.

Vic turned and froze. Not in shock. Just that sudden, soul-deep stillness that hits when someone sees something completely unexpected and completely insanely right.

The dark satin gleamed like opals under starlight. The lamplight glowed off the curves of Pia’s hips, the long, confident lines of her legs. The ears stood proud, casting a shadow on the wall behind her. The cuffs, collar and bow tie, the puffball tail, every detail was precise and absurd. And her presence was sculpted now, with more fire. Her sexual charisma boosted by the costume.

She posed. Not for a laugh. Not as a gag. She owned it.

Vic’s mouth parted, but no words came out. He blinked once. Twice. Then let out a long breath.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice a low rasp. “Wow.”

He stepped forward slowly, setting the glass down without looking, as if afraid that a sudden movement might break the spell.

“That photo,” he murmured, stopping just in front of her, “You were the one in midnight blue.”

Pia did the sideways V sign, winked, and stuck out her tongue at him.

“Of course you were.”

He reached up and gently, reverently, touched the bowtie at her neck. Somehow his fingers were steady.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?”

* Men can be so dense! * Pia thought. Her left eyebrow twitched once, irritably. "I’ve got a dripping tap. I thought you could fix it and save me the cost of a plumber. Because you’re a man."

Vic stared at her for a full second. Then he laughed. A startled, delighted laugh that bubbled up from his chest like Campari and soda over ice.

“You absolute menace,” he said, shaking his head. “You show up looking like Jessica Rabbit’s lethal cousin and expect me to pick up a spanner?”

He didn’t step back. He didn’t look away. He just leaned in slightly, his voice lower.

“Just so I’m clear, am I meant to fix the tap first, or is this one of those metaphors where the ‘drip’ is emotional vulnerability and the wrench is sex?” He smiled then, slow, crooked, completely smitten.

“I’ll fix your damn tap, Pia. But you better be careful. Keep on pulling moves like this, and you’re going to end up with a man who wants to marry you.” He went past her, with a light touch on her hip, and headed for the bathroom.

“Show me where it leaks, Bunny Girl.”

"The damp patch is not in the bathroom, Vic. Actually I think there may be a blockage that will need rooting. I believe that's the correct technical term."

Vic paused mid-step, one hand on the doorframe, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly, then he turned back, very slowly, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.

“I see,” he said, his voice deepening just a shade. “We’re doing plumbing innuendo now.”

He stepped toward Pia again, hands casually in his trouser pockets, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to grin.

“A blockage, you say. Might need… rooting. That’s the technical term, is it?”

He looked her up and down, resplendent in satin and audacity, then tilted his head, eyes shining.

“I’m just a humble automatic car driver with limited wrench experience, Pia. If this is your way of asking for help unclogging a drain, I might need some very… specific instructions.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Close enough that if Pia breathed a little deeper, the tension might snap like a garter.

“I’m all yours,” he said softly. “Plumbing metaphors and all.”

"Dammit. You had better unzip me, Vic, because I can't reach." Though obviously she could or how would she have zipped herself up? "Be careful because this outfit is tailored specifically for me. When you get to the source of the problem, take special care with protective equipment."

Vic gave a soft, breathless laugh, equal parts aroused and completely overmatched. “You are,” he murmured, “The most dangerous woman I have ever met.”

His hand moved to her back with trembling precision, fingers slipping beneath the line of her collar, down the nape of her neck, to find the zip. It descended slowly, the sound deliciously loud in his focussed sensorium. His other hand rested lightly on her hip, steadying her as the satin loosened.

“Tailored,” he repeated, almost to himself, like it was both a warning and a prayer. “Of course it is. Custom made chaos. Just like you.”

The zip stopped. His fingertips paused there, just brushing the bare skin of the small of her back.

The air shimmered. Their every nerve was alive.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 49: Unconscious Confessions

Victor stirred only faintly when the mattress shifted. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to, but registered the soft swish of the duvet being drawn aside, then the faint rhythm of bare feet on floorboards. Pia. That warm morning scent of her still lingered on the pilow.

He smiled.

The previous night flickered in his memory like a reflection off a lake: her sudden transformation into navy blue silk and fishnet stockings, her dare-me pose, the laughter that had spiralled into breathless gasps and whispered confessions. ‘Take special care,’ she’d said. He had.

Now there was birdsong. A kettle clicking off as it reached the boil. Faint music from the radio. And Pia talking to herself in that breezy Franglais she sometimes spoke out loud when she forgot someone could hear her.

Vic stretched, his body tired in a good way. He could still feel her hands on his hips, her lips at his neck. He lay back, arm draped behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

*She’s incredible. I’m in deep.*

But something in her mood last night, even in the fun and heat of it, haunted him. That perfume story, her gun, her eyes gone distant, until she cracked a joke to break the tension. He’d promised her that he was in it with her, mess and all. Still true. Still solid. But he knew she hadn’t told him everything. And if she needed time, fine. He wasn’t going anywhere. He just hoped whatever shadow was lurking wouldn’t make her run again.

Pia had a habit of talking to herself in a mixture of English, French, and bits of Japanese when she was alone. Sometimes even if someone was around, if she was concentrating on something else, such as writing a message. Currently she was pottering around the kitchen naked except for white, Brazilian style panties, getting things ready for breakfast.

"Boiled eggs. The sex was great, again. All the good positions. Plenty of kissing... All over. Nearly out of bread. He's so good with his hands. Very valuable skill in a man, oh yes!"

Humming...

"I'll go shopping later. I'll get pregnant so easily, I'm sure, when it's the right time. Toast, butter, Marmite, marmalade. My body wants it. Middle of my cycle. Hormones…”

The fridge huffed opened, then sighed shut again.

“No, sorry, my little ovum. No sperm for you today. One day I'll be ready."

From the bedroom, Vic blinked at the ceiling, nearly slipping back to sleep, until her words drifted in from the kitchen. At first, he thought she was on the phone, then realised the rhythm was too random, the pauses out of sync. Pia was just talking to herself. He smiled.

Then her words filtered in properly.

“Plenty of kissing... He’s so good with his hands… very valuable skill…” He grinned, running a hand down his chest like he might give himself a high five. Then… “I’ll get pregnant so easily… hormones… no sperm for you today…”

He sat bolt upright.

Oh. Okay. That hit different. Not bad. Not scary. But real.

There was something about hearing her voice, casual, unfiltered, lilting through the unit that made the idea feel suddenly… close. Like, not just sex and sleepovers and philosophical chats on balconies, but legacy, new life, a tiny version of her stomping around with a remix of her chaos and beauty.

One day I’ll be ready, she’d said.

He let the words settle in his chest a moment longer, then swung his legs off the bed, rising to his feet. A part of him wanted to joke, make a quip about sperm on strike or joining a union, but something told him not to. This moment had weight. Not heavy, not solemn. But meaningful.

Still, he couldn't resist a little something.

He leaned in the kitchen doorway, eyes drinking in the sight of her in nothing but those teasing little panties and her own sunshine.

"Should I be offended because my best tadpoles got benched without even trying out?" He raised an eyebrow, half-grin tugging at his mouth.

“Eek!” Pia jumped. "Oh! Vic, I didn't hear you come in. Was I talking out loud?" She looked flustered. "What did I say?"

Vic strolled in barefoot, lifting his hands like he’d just walked into a negotiation heavily armed with croissants.

"Hey, hey, I come in peace. Just me and my allegedly benched swimmers." He crossed to her slowly, the grin softening into something fond as he took in her flushed cheeks, messy pixie cut, and the near total lack of clothes.

"You were talking like no one was listening," he said gently, slipping one hand to her waist, his thumb grazing her skin. “Which, to be fair, is my favourite genre of Pia.” He kissed her forehead.

"What did I hear? Mmm…" He pretended to think. “Something about how amazing I am in bed, again, you were really emphatic about that part. That my hands are a national treasure. Also, toast, Marmite, and hormones. And a rather touching farewell to an egg.” He ducked to peer into her eyes, playful but attentive.

“Hey. If that was private, I can pretend I didn’t hear it. But if you want to talk, I mean really talk, I’m here. Even for the bits you think might scare me.” He added, deadpan: “I’ve faced drop bears, remember.”

"Oh no! I was thinking out loud again. Oh no. Go and wash. Breakfast in five minutes." Pia pushed Vic towards the bathroom, half giggling, half embarrassed, her face ablush. "Even I know there aren't any drop bears except in Queensland."

Vic let her steer him with a grin, hands up in mock surrender as he backed toward the bathroom.

“Wow. Kicked out of the kitchen and publicly debunked. You’re ruthless before Marmite.” He paused in the doorway and cocked his head.

“But you’re right. Drop bears are Queensland’s problem. We’ve got Sydney property developers. Much scarier.” He winked. “Five minutes. Don’t burn the toast. Or my reputation.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, humming a Beach Boys riff badly. As he washed, he let the image of her linger; bare skin, naked thoughts, the way she laughed with that little note of please don’t look too hard just underneath.

*She's thinking about kids. Maybe marriage.*

And for the first time in his life, the idea didn’t make his stomach twist, it made his chest feel calm. Like the ocean on a windless morning.

"Do I get coffee too?” he called, “Or do I need to fill in an application form for that?"

A muffled reply, "I always do fresh coffee for breakfast." Pia finished cooking and put the warm plates on the table. "

"Time's up, Vic."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 50: Marmite Diplomacy

Vic emerged from the shower, damp hair pushed back, wearing only yesterday’s jeans slung low on his hips. He smelled faintly of her expensive shampoo.

He paused at the sight of Pia in nothing but panties, her small breasts and long legs golden in the morning light, her shoulders bare except for the glint of a necklace he hadn’t noticed last night. The breakfast plates were steaming hot.

“Whoa,” he said softly, crossing to the table. “You weren’t kidding. Gourmet-detective eggs and fresh coffee. I’m dating a domestic goddess with a dark past.”

He sat, eyes still on her as he reached for a mug.

“I mean it, though. This? All of this? Feels like something I could get used to.” He sipped, then raised a brow across the table.

“So. Any more internal monologues I should be aware of before we talk about… you know… marmalade versus jam diplomacy?”

Pia evaded the real topic.

"I prefer marmalade for breakfast. People say it's old-fashioned but I like the bitter-sweetness. Like a Negroni. Jam is for teatime. Or honey. We've almost run out of Marmite, Vic. You can have it anytime. I mean you can't because I want it for myself. What I mean is you can have it for breakfast or tea. Only you can't. As I said. I'll order some more from the specialist import shop and then you can have some."

Vic was buttering his toast when she hit him with the Marmite monologue. He froze mid-spread, watching her with growing delight as she danced between generosity and fierce territoriality like a jazz singer defending her solo and offering the mic all at once. He leaned on one elbow, cutlery forgotten.

“Okay, so I’m allowed to want the Marmite. I’m just not allowed to have the Marmite. Unless you order more of the Marmite. Which you will. But maybe I still can’t have it. Because you’re a benevolent tyrant.”

He nodded solemnly, getting ready to butter his toast. “Got it. Marmite rules. Understood. Honestly, it’s sexy how much you care about yeast extract.”

Pia had rattled along in a happy stream of consciousness, pouring coffee, handing Vic the butter and so on, with smiles and shy glances. She shut up for a minute to drink her smoothie, then said quietly, "I'm still not used to having you here for breakfast, actually."

His expression softened. “I’m not used to it either,” he said quietly, eyes on her, warm. “But I really, really like it. Even if I don’t get to taste the Marmite.”

"I tried to make a Marmite Martini once, but it was not a success. I should try it again. I probably just need to experiment more. You can be my guinea pig, Vic."

“Marmite Martini!?” Vic’s eyes widened. “I read somewhere that a Martini can be a weapon. Do I need to get tooled up?”

"I'll buy you a jar for your birthday.” She sipped her coffee. “What's on the work agenda this week, Vic? Now you're out of the woods for the bad thing that happened." Pia spoke as though it wasn’t her who had precipitated the crisis.

Vic groaned dramatically, tipping his head back.

“Ughhh. Don’t jinx it. I’ve only just stopped dreaming about sudden audits and everyone pointing at me like in that scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” But her phrasing, the bad thing, landed with the usual mix of dark humour and underlying weight. He glanced at her, thoughtful, then shrugged lightly.

“I’ve got two catch-up meetings today with department heads I low-key ghosted while trying not to get fired. Then a call with a distributor who may or may not be smuggling NFTs inside novelty fridge magnets, jury’s still out. Also,” he muttered, Sotto Voce, “Olivia hinted that I may be in line for a promotion.” He took another bite of his omelette, chewed, then pointed his fork at her. “You still planning to go through that SD card today? Want help?”

Pia gave Vic a bit of a look. She was wondering about the significance of the potential promotion. But Vic was apparently reticent about it. He had immediately switched to a new subject, so she decided to wait for him to tell her more in his own good time. Instead, she tackled the issue of the CCTV footage head on.

“I think it's best that you keep well clear of the SD card, Vic. I caused you enough trouble with the SPOODER stuff. You’re in the clear for that, fortunately. In fact you might have got out in front, if Olivia’s serious about…” She drank again. “Well. I won’t jinx it by saying it. But if there's anything dodgy in the footage, I'm taking it to the police like a good citizen."

Vic met the stare with a small, sheepish nod.

“Fair. I’ll stay in my lane. Or in my department. Or just… way over here with my Marmite ban and zero criminal charges.”

She relaxed and smiled. "On a more cheerful note, my Jimny is getting delivered this week. For real, this time. Would you like to go for a drive when I get it?"

He smiled back, grateful for the way she pivoted the conversation, like she always knew exactly how much seriousness to let in before the windows needed opening again. Then, Jimny. His eyes lit up.

“Wait, your Jimny? You’re finally getting it?” He looked like a kid who’d just found out the family got a dog. “Absolutely I want to go for a drive. That little beast is going to change your whole vibe. Tiny urban tank with big chaos energy. You’ll be unstoppable.” Then, grinning: “Where are we going? Rooftop noodle bar? The beach? A highway to nowhere with questionable playlists?”

"No rooftop bars, Vic. Unless they are very wide, with high walls so you can’t see the edge. Let's do a seaside drive. By the way, I invited Camille to the beach. No firm plan, but I thought we could get Dan and Kiri along, and their little boy Leo. I lowkey want to scare Camille into the water by threatening her with sharing childcare duties.” She crunched some toast.

Pia finished her breakfast and poured more coffee.

"The thing is, the days are so short, and I'm scared to go out in the early morning or the evening. Surfing in the dark, I mean, Vic. The ocean is so huge and so deep. I think of that abyss below me. I don’t want to get lost out there. So we should make the most of the daylight at the weekend."

Vic gave a mock salute at the rooftop veto. “Copy that. No buildings with gravity risks.” Then her plan for the weekend hit him and his grin grew.

“Camille at the beach? With Dan and Kiri? That’s a sitcom episode waiting to happen. And you threatening her with toddler duty? Ruthless. I love it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching, still half in disbelief that this was his morning now, fresh coffee, a stunning wahine talking beach days and sunrise fears like it was all normal.

“That’s actually kind of sexist. Assuming the women will look after Leo because we’re women. Perhaps I’ll make you and Dan do it."

"Woah! I can pick up the toddler slack, just try me,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “But yeah. Let’s chase the light we’ve got. The waves feel different when it starts turning cold. Better, in a way. Wilder. Quieter. I mean less crowded. You want to drive, or shall I? I can be a very respectful passenger. Or, at worst, a great DJ.”

"It's a manual gearbox, Vic, with 4-wheel drive differentials for off-road. I've seen the way you grind your fuccing Audi even though it’s an automatic. Which is supposed to be impossible. You can stick to DJing in my Jimny. I've got to choose a name for her."

Vic pressed a hand to his heart like she’d wounded him.

“Oof. The way I grind my Audi? Babe, that’s slander. He’s a precision instrument, and I drive him like I’m in a heist film, on purpose.” He leaned in, elbows on the table, a smirk on his face. “But fair enough. You’re the pilot. I’ll cue the soundtrack. Start with some retro road trip bangers, end with existential surf jazz. Or just two solid hours of Bowie.”

He sipped his coffee, then added casually, “So… what kind of name are we talking? Cute? Cool? Ironic? Polynesian warrior queen?” Then, with a raised eyebrow. “Or is she like you, seems tiny and adorable until you realise she could absolutely win a car chase and leave emotional damage?”

"You call me tiny?” Pia snorted in derision. “I'm 5 feet 9. I know you're like six feet plus, but if I put on my highest heels, I would be eye to eye with you. Just about. I'll take the adorable bit, though." She smiled. "Anyway, it’s time you were off, because being late is a bad look for you at the moment. I've got lots of things to do today. Drop me a line later."

Vic stood, laughing as he backed toward the door again, grabbing his shirt off a nearby chair.

“Fair correction. Statuesque wahine of chaos, noted. And yes, adorable remains uncontested.” He tugged the shirt on, then came back for a quick kiss, his hand brushing the curve of her jaw because he couldn’t help it. “I’ll message you later. Focus on being brilliant, mysterious, possibly illegal. I’ll focus on not getting fired.”

He paused in the doorway, keys jingling in one hand.

“Tonight. Seaside drive. You, me, and one very lucky Jimny.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 51: Beach and Other Plans

Pia sat down to make a To Do list

1. Make a To Do List
2. Invite Camille to beach, find out where she lives
3. Invite Dan and Kiri to beach with Leo
4. Order Marmite
5. Hang up laundry
6. Look at the footage
7. Collect new car!!

She smiled, crossed off the first item, switched on the HiFi system, and searched up a playlist of love songs at low volume, so as not to spoil the call to Camille.

"Allo Camille!” Pia said in French. “Comment ca va?"

Camille’s voice came through crisp and clear, her tone warm, a little amused, and unmistakably Lyonnaise before the words even landed.

«Olympe, ma chérie!» she sang back. «Tu m’appelles avant midi, tu dois vraiment m’aimer. My morning is good. I’m still in bed. The cat is on my shoulder. I’m pretending to be too elegant to move.» There was the soft rustle of sheets and the distant purr of a cat mic-ambushing the call. «And you? Did you sleep well? You sound happy. Tired but relaxed? I imagine that handsome man is involved.» She didn’t wait for an answer. «Tell me everything, but first, why do I feel like you are calling with an agenda? Something mischievous, non?»

"The handsome man has left for the office. I called you because there is a To Do list and you are the second item on it. I would like to fulfil my threat to invite you to the beach. I thought also to ask Vic and a couple of friends, Dan and Kiri. I'll call them next. What do you say? I won't tell you any gossip unless you accept," Pia trilled cheerfully, her happy mood elevating her whole tone of voice.

Camille paused at Pia’s mention of ‘Dan and Kiri,’ her voice sliding into curiosity.

«Hmm? You’re assembling quite the cast. I don’t think I’ve met them yet. Are they as pretty as you? As interesting? And there’re no hidden children in this plan, right? You wouldn’t spring a toddler on me without warning? That feels very… Anglo-Saxon.»

A hot moment passed.

«Quand même, ouais. I’ll come. I’ll bring a hat and a book I shan't read, and my opinions about sunscreen. Just tell me when and where. And now, spill. I want all the tea. Start with the end and work backward.»

"Well, you remember the photo I showed young Timmo and he made up a story about the Bunny Girl spies? The fact is, I was in the photo. I once had a job at a casino in London. And I kept the Bunny costume, which isn’t allowed, but I have a habit of acquiring pieces of portable property lacking proper provenance. So when I got home I gave Vic a drink and quickly changed into the outfit. He was rather surprised. He asked, what did I want with him? I told him I had a leaky tap, and please to fix it for me."

Camille let out a sharp, delighted ha! that made her cat mew in protest.

«Oh mon dieu, Pia! You absolute criminal. You baited him with plumbing metaphors? In a Bunny Girl costume? This is better than fiction. This is Parisian theatre with more legs.» She sighed happily. «And he stayed the night, clearly. So, was it, how does one say, plus que satisfaisant? Or are you only calling me because you broke the tap for real and now you need a new excuse to seduce him?» A pause, then in a more thoughtful, affectionate tone: «You sound radiant. You do. And that makes me glad. He must be good for you.»

"Much better than my Hitachi Magic Wand. It's the rechargeable version. That’s not a slam, they’re actually very good. No power cord to get tangled up in. What did you do with young Timmo after the party, Camille?"

Camille snorted so hard she actually coughed. «Pardon! You can’t just drop your vibrator into conversation like a spoon in a soufflé!» She recovered quickly, though, and her voice purred with approval. «Rechargeable. Modern. Efficient. Like a Swiss army knife for the lonely heart.» She switched gears without missing a beat. «As for young Timmo, don’t worry. I was perfectly well-behaved. I put him in an Uber, gave him career advice, and resisted the urge to corrupt him entirely. Though he did ask if he could send me a script.»

Camille paused, a little wickedly. Pia waited for the denouement.

«Which I assume is code for ‘can we flirt via subtext for the next three months?’ Of course I said yes. So tell me… Do you think he’s in love with you?”

"Who, Timmo?” Pia asked. “I do sometimes have a powerful and immediate effect on men. But I hardly flirted with him at all. I was going to, only I changed my mind because he seemed a sweet boy and I shouldn't be such a tease."

Camille made a soft, theatrical tsk like she was swatting away invisible scandal.

«How noble of you. Sparing the delicate heart of a budding auteur. You should get a medal. Or a limited edition perfume.» But there was warmth in her voice beneath the mischief. «He is sweet, that’s true. And a little bit in awe of you, I think. Though really, who isn’t?» She stretched with a soft rustle of covers. «So. Beach, then? You’ll send the details? And I’ll bring wine, because I suspect the real reason you invited me is that you want me to day-drink with you while pretending we’re supervising a child we didn’t know existed. Thank you for calling, Pia. It’s lovely hearing you sound so… Alive.»

"I'm so glad I've persuaded you, Camille. I mustn't drink wine, though, as I'll be driving. I'll give you a lift. I don't know your address...?"

Camille chuckled.

«Oh là là, you ask so sweetly. Like a spy casually requesting important secrets.»

She rattled off her address, an art deco apartment block in Double Bay, elegant but slightly faded, “With a view of yachts I do not own and neighbours I do not trust. You’ll love it. Very cinematic. A film noir heroine might live here. Though my bathtub has cracked enamel, and my landlady wears mink slippers in July.» She added: «Text me when you’re close, and I’ll come down like a debutante. Don’t be late, I’d hate to keep your man waiting at the beach while you ferry French women across Sydney. And Pia? Bring the Bunny ears. You never know when inspiration might strike.»

"I’ll text you full details later, Camille dear. Au revoir."

«À très bientôt, ma belle.» Camille’s voice was warm, amused, and full of promise. «Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, which leaves you plenty of scope. Ha ha!»

The call ended with a digital click. Pia jotted down Camille’s address before she could forget it, and put a line through item 2. The playlist hummed gently in the background, low brass, lush strings, and a male voice crooning something heartbreakingly sincere. She was alone again, her coffee warm, her list partially crossed off.

Pia ripped through the other items on her list. She fixed up the beach plan for the weekend, texted details to everyone, and ordered two jars of Marmite from the Irish and British Convenience Store. Finally she switched off the music and looked at her computer. It looked right back at her. Pia wasn't intimidated. She tapped it into life, and refreshed her memory of the key points she had got so far.

"The footage is a good clue that something is going on. Alex confirmed it's probably high value game card smuggling, counterfeiting, or money laundering. Maybe all three combined. However, this isn't solid evidence. It wouldn't cut the mustard in court. Hmmm…"

Pia viewed the crucial footage again, thinking how she might use her undercover skills to investigate further, and get real proof. She began to type out the headers of an operation.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 52: Accessories and Other Weapons

Vic barely survived the morning meetings. Not because he was in any danger. Olivia had vindicated him, and also seemed to value him enough to hint seriously at promotion. He just felt he might die of sheer tedium.

The first session involved three middle-aged account managers arguing about international shipping codes while Vic secretly edited a spreadsheet to look more finished than it was. The second included an iced coffee spill (not his) and a twenty-minute sidebar about ‘physical logistical capability planning’ that made him briefly nostalgic for the manual labour of his student vacations, because it was merely a rambling discussion of different types of packaging materials. Now, back at his desk, Vic was elbow-deep in email triage when his phone buzzed with a text from Pia.

“@Bae: Beach plan locked in for the weekend. You, me, Camille, Dan, Kiri. Bonus: secret child. No rooftop bars. Bring sunscreen.”

He smiled. Another ping.

“Also, two jars of Marmite secured. The good stuff. You’re welcome.”

He grinned wider, thumbed back a reply.

“@Pia: You are a domestic goddess and a soft tyrant. Can’t wait for seaside chaos. I’ll bring virtue and towels.”

After a pause, he added one more message:

“Hope you’re not falling too deep into detective mode today. You said ‘no more jobs.’ Remember? Just a girl in the world, with Marmite and vibes.”

But as he sent it, a flicker of unease passed through him. He remembered that look in her eyes at Renée’s salon. She was thinking again. Beautiful, dangerous thoughts.

Pia typed up the headers of the case: her and Alex's suspicions, the important clues, equipment needs and support personnel she might use for an undercover operation.

*Should I tap Henderson or Jason for help?* she pondered. Jason was her American ex-partner, an outwardly macho but secretly sentimental detective sergeant from Chicago. They had done three big cases together, the last one in Western Australia under Henderson's guidance as Interpol liaison and local controller. Pia's undercover role had been a French backpacker working as a Skimpy Barmaid, listening for the loose lips of tech geeks from a Five Eyes station in the coastal outback, where they monitored Chinese naval movements in the eastern Indian ocean.

Things had gone badly wrong in an unexpected way. Pia was abducted by one of those Mad Max style psychos who roamed the fringes of the Outback, preying on foreign tourists. It was nothing to do with the actual case, just a random chaos element that dropped into life. Jason rescued Pia before she came to serious physical harm but she suffered enough mental trauma to get six months medical leave. After which she resigned from Interpol and went to New York and got herself into different kinds of trouble.

*Probably a bad idea, but I'll make a note anyway. You never know how things will develop.*

She messaged Vic again. "@Bae: Don't forget, mini road trip tonight in my new car! You're going to be shotgun rider and DJ."

Vic’s phone lit up again. He read the message, then tapped out a reply while a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“@Pia: Wouldn’t miss it for anything. Already choosing the playlist. Spoiler alert: there will be Fleetwood Mac. Possibly Dua Lipa. Definitely one song that makes you threaten to throw me out of the Jimny.”

He stared at the screen for a moment longer, then locked it and leaned back in his chair. *She’s making plans,* he thought. *Not just weekend plans. Something else.* Whatever it was, it had an aura of jack moves wrapped in silk and cunning. *I need to be ready,* he told himself. *Just in case.*

When Vic got back to Pia's home, he found her ready to rock. Her core look was a black, sleeveless unitard layered under a black skater skirt, sleek, agile, and low-key flirtatious. Black leather Armelle zip-up ankle boots from La Botte Gardiane, strong, minimalist, slightly intimidating. She pulled on an oversize blue-and-white varsity jacket. A piece borrowed from a past life. The lettering on it was Klingon, part nerd joke, part warning.

For accessories Pia had pale amber night driving glasses, which gave hacker-on-a-stakeout energy, and her black diamond stud earrings. The large, crossbody bag from Launer of London, in camel brown semi-gloss leather, classic silhouette, was understated glam. The make that Queen Elizabeth always carried. The front side had a cleverly repaired stab hole, and the back was lined with hidden Kevlar and mesh armour. Cut-proof strap, naturally.

Her pixie cut was textured to look wind-kissed. She wore minimal makeup, clean skin, matte balm, defined brows and mascara, and nude lipstick. Her signature scent, Creed Erolfa, crisp marine and citrus, hints of Mediterranean coasts and sun-warmed yacht decks, wrapped around Vic as Pia let him in and offered him the use of the bathroom.

Vic stopped cold. “Whoa.”

She looked like she’d walked out of a graphic novel where the femme fatale was the protagonist and everyone else was just playing catch-up. Sleek. Equipped with accessories that probably had backstories. And that jacket, was it Star Wars script? He didn’t even want to know. He did, but he also feared the answer.

“Pia,” he said slowly, setting down his keys, “You look like you’re about to hack the Pentagon and win a drag race on the way there.”

He stepped in closer, hands sliding lightly down her arms, lips brushing her cheek with a smile.

“You smell good enough to get pulled over. You sure I’m allowed in the passenger seat looking like this? Bathroom offer accepted. But I want to know the story behind that jacket. Unless it’s classified.”

He headed toward the bathroom, tossing over his shoulder, “Is that a Kevlar-lined handbag? You do know how to make a man feel safe.”

"I got the jacket off an old friend. You look fine, Vic, just a bit 'tired office worker with an air of finance bro'. In the right type of bar you'd be swarmed by pick-me chicks. You'd regret picking them. They'd always let you drive, so you couldn't drink. But if you want to go drag racing, I can check my wardrobe for some oversize stuff. Or maybe spandex.” She smiled a lop-sided smile. “I don't think it's going to be a good look for you but 'chacun son gout'. I don't judge or kink shame."

Pia stepped towards the spare bedroom, which was somewhat stuffed with her fashionista hoard. Vic poked his head out of the bathroom, laughing the low, wrecked-by-her, chuckle she so often provoked him into.

“‘Tired office worker with an air of finance bro’? Harsh but fair. You forgot mildly over-caffeinated and barely hanging on.” He disappeared again, his voice echoing faintly as he freshened up.

“Also, for the record, I regret almost all my past pick-me decisions. But mostly the ones who would monologue about their skincare routine while stealing fries they said they didn’t want.”

“That’s just girlfriend culture, Vic.” Pia reminded him. “I mean the fries. I never talk to you about my skincare. Which obviously is awesome.” She clammed up and checked her Launer bag as if she was thinking whether she ought to carry her passports and a roll of gold sovereigns for a quick getaway.

By the time Vic emerged, face rinsed and hair smoothed back, he caught sight of her delving into the spare bedroom, the vault, as he privately called it. A tightly curated collection of clothes, jewellery, and expensive shoes, with apparently as much storage space as the Tardis. Somehow Pia was always able to pull out a new look even though she changed clothes as much as three times a day. He leaned in the doorway, arms folded.

“You realise no jury would convict me if I got distracted and we never made it to the car, right? You’re already dressed to the nines, so what exactly are you checking in there?

Pia smirked.

"I made a clever joke where I pretended to confuse your mention of drag racing with RuPaul's Drag Race, and thought you wanted to try out for the show. I'll file it for possible future use. It might work at one of Renée's salons. I haven't really got any spare women’s clothes for you, though, because you’re too large. Well, maybe a loose skirt, or… Accessories? Women's watches are trending with cool young men on the red carpets at major awards ceremonies. Perhaps one of mine would fit on your wrist."

Vic gave her a slow, approving nod, like she’d served a gourmet pun on a silver tray.

“Oh, I got the joke. I was just too stunned by the delivery to respond appropriately. Honestly, if you did have spare clothes in my size, I’d start checking the ceiling for hidden cameras.”

He stepped in a little closer, eyeing an open wardrobe like it was a shimmering portal to Narnia via Vogue.

“But I’d wear the watch. Especially if it gives me points with the cool red carpet guys. I could use the fashion cred.”

He picked up a narrow, gold-toned piece from a tray, mock-studied it “Will this make my jawline look more defined?”

Then he glanced back at her, playful but warm beneath it. “Or should we skip accessories and just go drive with the windows down and let people wonder what our deal is?”

"I don’t know why, but playing with gender identity is definitely hot. How about earrings?” Pia offered. “You’re not pierced but I have some clip-ons. Maybe these?" She handed Vic a pair of large pearl clusters. He didn’t know there were binaural microphones and Bluetooth transmitters in the jewellery. They were part of a set that included a recorder to go under a Bunny Girl’s wig.

Vic took the clip-ons gently, examining them like they were rare artefacts handed over by an eccentric heiress. Which they were, in some sense.

“A central large pearl surrounded by smaller ones,” he mused. “Elegant. Bold. Slightly threatening.” He looked at her, one brow raised. “You do realise if I put these on, I’m going to be even more irresistible to weird women staffing the console in a 24 hour servo, right?”

Then he clipped one on, winced, adjusted. “Ow. Beauty really is pain.”

“Now you know why I have pierced ears,” Pia commented. “It’s one brief stab of a needle you hardly notice. Actually, you might not believe me but I got a bit wet when I had mine done. I felt I was gaining agency of my body. Or maybe I’ve just got a bit of sado-masochism. The nuisance is you have to always keep a basic retainer in, or the holes heal up again in a few days. That’s what sleeper earrings are for.”

Vic turned slightly, giving her a smouldering profile with mock seriousness. “Be honest. Do I look like I run an avant-garde kombucha label and ghostwrite for tech billionaires? Or do I just look like your driver-slash-bodyguard who’s a little too into The Row?”

Pia began to giggle, and hugged Vic joyfully, kissing and talking close into his ear.

"You're just great! Put the earrings away and come as you are. The night is not so young as it was 20 minutes ago. I want to get something to eat. Haute cuisine. A meat pie from a servo."

Vic wrapped his arms around her, holding her close with a soft mmm as her words warmed the side of his neck.

“Damn right,” he murmured into her hair. “Nothing says romantic evening like sweaty pastry with dubious fillings. I’m yours.”

He leaned back just enough to brush his nose against hers.

“No pearls, no spandex. Just vibes and vibing.”

He stepped back, tossed the pearl earrings onto the bed with theatrical flair, and extended his hand like the male lead in a black and white movie.

“Lead the way, Miss Reese. Let’s baptise that Jimny in pie grease and starlight.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 53: Road Trip

The brand new Jimny XL was lemon yellow with contrasting black trim that included blobby plastic wheel arch guards. As if a mad scientist had spliced the DNA from a bumble-bee with a baby jeep and a high-end designer sneaker that failed miserably in the market, but mint in box copies now go for $1,000s on special collector websites. Pia looked incredibly proud. She patted the A frame lovingly.

"This is Rosalie. She’s proper off-road. I got the optional sump guard and shields for the differentials. She's going to take me all over New South Wales. And look on top.” She pointed. “Roof rack for surfboards."

Vic stood still for a moment, just taking it in.

Lemon yellow. Black trim. Wheel arches that looked like they might sprout eyes and roll away if you stared too long. The whole thing could probably survive both a sandstorm and a pop-up fashion show in Newtown. He gave a long, low whistle.

“Rosalie,” he said, reverently. “You glorious little troll of a car.”

He stepped closer, ran his hand along the glossy plane of the bonnet like he was greeting a sacred beast.

“She’s got main character energy. Like she’d run over your ex, then back up and offer you a lift.”

He looked at the roof rack. “And she surfs. Of course she does. It’s you, in car form. Loud, strange, invincible.” He grinned sideways at Pia, “Shotgun, right? I’m not allowed to drive this masterpiece. I accept my fate.” He opened the passenger door with a little bow. “Let’s feed her. And us.”

Pia beamed at Vic's praise of Rosalie. She hopped into the driver seat, started the motor and powered up the map system.

"Where do you want to go, Vic? This map will take us anywhere in Australia. Obviously not tonight. I thought we could do a scenic drive around and stop for some food. I hardly know anything about the geography of the outer suburbs, though. And don't forget the tunes. There's a radio, or you can sync your phone by Bluetooth and play music off it."

Vic settled into the passenger seat like he was stepping into a theme park ride he hadn’t read the safety disclaimer for. He clipped his seatbelt shut with a satisfying click and ran an appreciative hand over the dashboard.

“She smells brand new. Like hope and vinyl.”

“She is brand new. Look at the mileage.” It read 23 -- kilometres, of course -- but Pia had spent enough of her life in the UK and America to habitually think of distances in miles.

“Yeah, stupid me. Anyway…” Vic reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, swiping through playlists. “I’ve got a driving mix. Bit of surf rock, bit of synth, one inexplicably moving Japanese pop track I can’t explain. No skips, I swear.” As he paired the phone to the system, he glanced at Pia, grinning. “Let’s go north. Hug the coast, get lost a little. Maybe wind up somewhere with neon signage and food that’s been under a heat lamp just a bit too long, but enough to be perfect.”

The music kicked in, The Growlers, 'California', low-key acoustic guitars and vocals, lazy and warm.

“Take us out, captain. Rosalie’s maiden voyage begins.”

Pia dicked around with the map until she had locked in the Hornby Lighthouse, right at the tip of the headland to the north-east, as her destination. Easing out into the late rush hour traffic, she moved confidently through the gears. The navi system’s posh girl voice sounded surprisingly like Pia, as if she was directing herself.

"Any advice on road etiquette, Vic? I've driven in the UK, France, the US and Japan, so I’ve got all kinds of bad habits. Also I’ve done tactical pursuit and evasion courses."

Vic leaned back as Rosalie purred through the gears, one arm resting on the door, the other tapping along to the beat.

“Driving etiquette? In Sydney? Pfft. Easy. Step one: prepare to be tailgated by utes no matter your speed. Step two: indicate like your life depends on it, because no one else will. And step three: if someone waves you in, you must do the little thank-you hand raise. It’s legally binding Aussie karma.”

He glanced over as they merged onto a wider road, the skyline to their left starting to glow peach and lilac with the dying sun.

“And don’t stress. You’re already ahead of the game. You actually use your mirrors and don’t treat the horn like a musical instrument.” He added with a cheeky smile, “Although if you start shouting ‘spanker!’ out the window, you’ll fit in immediately. It's cultural.”

"I saw an episode of Superbro on Netflix where the wave-in happens and there’s a fight because of no hand raise. We do the same in Britain. Or blink our hazard lights. Usually there's no fighting." Pia drove quietly for a while, listening to the sound track of her new life. Giving Vic silence to say whatever he liked.

Vic let the music fill the space between them, the last low sunlight flaring off the corners of Rosalie’s bonnet as they passed out of the city’s dense thrum and into an open stretch of coastbound road. He watched Pia’s profile, the way she leaned into the wheel just slightly, all focus and subtle power, like someone born to handle the controls of something unconventional.

*This is what contentment looks like,* he thought. *A clear windscreen ahead, playlist on, Pia in charge of the ride.* He let the silence linger a while, then spoke softly, not looking at her directly.

“You ever think about how fast things are moving?” He paused. “I mean… not us. Not just us. Life. The weird left turns. Two months ago I was negotiating a fairly polite breakup with Emma and wondering if I’d ever have a reason to get out of bed again.” He laughed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “And now I’m sitting next to you in a neon bumblebee of a car, heading toward a lighthouse like we’re starring in a deleted scene from To Catch a Thief: The Streaming Series.” He glanced at her, one brow raised, sincere now. “I’m not complaining. Just saying… I’m glad it’s you.”

“You do mean us, Vic.” Pia told him. She changed lanes to avoid a double-parked delivery van. "I'd probably like Emma if I met her. Two reasons. First because she liked you enough to start with, and that shows some kind of good taste. Second because she left you so I could get you on the rebound. Okay, that’s selfish of me. But, most of my exes were… Well. Less than ideal."

Pia shivered. Two of them had been truly toxic.

"And maybe things are moving fast, but life's short. Why hang around dithering about stuff when you can get on with it? Though to be fair, like I said, I've often picked bad men. Or women." She let that casual aside about her previously unmentioned bisexuality hang in the air.

Vic absorbed it all quietly, Emma, rebounds, that shiver that said don’t ask, and he didn’t. The air changed just a touch with that last casual line, her voice as cool and breezy as ever, but with some undercurrent just beneath. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pivot. Instead, he nodded once, slow.

“Well, that explains the confidence. You’ve got the full-spectrum flirting unlocked. And honestly? Yeah. Life’s short. Messy. Full of surprises, and a few proper bastards. But I think you’ve got a good radar now. Or at least… Better armour.” He reached over, laying his hand palm up between them on the centre console. “No dithering here. Not with you. Also, if you ever do meet Emma, don’t tell her I’m happier. She’d hate that.”

Pia quietly approved of Vic's gentle acceptance of one of her secrets. A bit of tension went out of her shoulders and she smiled briefly at him.

"I want to hold hands but it's a stick shift so we can’t. Have you got any Pizzicato Five on your phone? Or maybe you could stream them."

Vic saw that flicker of a smile, the kind that meant more than a full grin, and tucked it away like a postcard from a happy time.

“Yeah,” he said softly, eyes still on her. “I’ve got Pizzicato Five. Of course I do. I’m not completely uncultured.”

He tapped at his phone, syncing quickly, and the unmistakable bouncy Shibuya-kei pop of 'Tokyo Wa Yoru No Shichiji' came through the speakers, happy, cool, a little weird, because he couldn’t understand the lyrics apart from, “A New Stereophonic Sound Spectacular…”

Pia joined in, sang along in Japanese. She knew it was a love song, a yearning song, unserious and serious at the same time. A song with an ambiguous meaning. A song about a dream lover, or an unmet lover, or perhaps a lover who had ghosted the singer. She knew Vic didn’t understand Japanese. She smiled brightly at him, bobbing her head in time. He smiled back, wondering what she was thinking. He looked out the window for a while. He was used to driving himself. It felt different to be driven, and have the freedom to ignore the road and look at the scenery. The sea was starting to show itself between slats of scrub and rose-gilded dunes.

“You ever been to Hornby before?" he asked her. "I used to go up there sometimes when I needed to think. Something about the edge of the world feeling. Like you could start over again if you just dove in.”

"Nope, first visit. But I like lighthouses. Something like you said. A beacon at the edge of the world. You can look out and wonder about…” She paused, lost for words. “Stuff. What’s out there. Jump in. Reach the other side. Make a big change in your life.” Then she grinned. “I wouldn't climb up one, though."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 54: Hornby Lights

It only took another 20 minutes to reach the end of the road. Pia parked in a lay-by from where the lighthouse was visible to the north-east, its beam sweeping the sky overhead. She switched off the engine and the headlights, but kept the sidelights on for safety. Turned to Vic, her eyes glowing hot in the near darkness, and her voice was low and sultry.

"Hey. D'you wanna make out a bit?"

Vic blinked once, then turned slowly toward her, a grin blooming across his face, half-amazement, half boyish horniness.

“You’re so cinematic it’s actually unfair.”

The sidelights cast a soft amber glow across her profile, painting her skin like old film stock, her hair catching threads of gold from the dash. The lighthouse blinked its slow, ancient rhythm, steady as a heartbeat. He undid his seatbelt and leant across the centre console, his voice hot and low.

“Yeah, Pia. I really, really do.”

Then he kissed her, not rushed, not urgently. Just real, tender, warm. The kind of kiss that said I see you, even the secret bits. Even the parts you think you have to hide. His hand found hers at the gear stick, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

Outside, the distant waves crashed softly. Inside, time slowed down.

Pia responded with slow heat to the kiss, her breath getting quicker as her hands entwined Vic's, drawing one up to her breast.

"I kind of want to find out what we can do in the front seat without taking our clothes off."

Vic gave a low, husky laugh against her mouth, his pulse already thudding as she guided his hand with that soft insistence that always undid him.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured, lips brushing hers, the rhythm of the lighthouse blinking slow through the gathering dark. “Challenge accepted.”

His fingers curved gently, relearning her shape through sheer fabric, worshipping and playing at once. His other hand laced tighter with hers, anchoring them both in the moment. He kissed her again, deeper this time, slow and exploratory, not rushing anywhere they didn’t want to go. The car, the night, the city behind them, all fell away.

“Let’s see just how far this front seat sex can go,” he whispered, voice warm with mischief, “before Rosalie issues a formal complaint.”

Pia kissed and fumbled like a teenager on their first really hot date. It was difficult to get anything going, because the Jimny was a small car and the centre console got in the way. Somehow that added to the fun. She did her best. Used her hands. Whispered in Vic's ear something pretty randy about the way she could give him a good time if he was willing to take the risk.

Vic groaned softly as she murmured to him, his head dropping briefly to her shoulder as if her words alone had short-circuited half his motor skills. The gearstick jabbed his ribs. His knee hit the glove box. It was absurd. It was hilarious. It was hot as hell.

“Pia,” he gasped between kisses, “This is objectively the least ergonomic vehicle for what you’re proposing.”

Still, he didn’t stop. His hand slid down, tracing the edge of her skater skirt like he was reading braille. His fingers drifted across her thigh, and slid upwards. The sidelight glow caught the amber of her glasses, the sharp curve of her grin as she opened her legs. He kissed her again, then pulled back just enough to catch her eyes.

“I’ll take the risk,” he whispered. “But if we get arrested by park rangers, I’m going to make you do the explaining. In Klingon.”

15 urgent fumbling minutes later, Pia and Vic were both satisfied in a third base context, and broke apart from each other. She swallowed and licked her lips.

"Goddess that was hot!" Pia panted. "I'm soaked. Achievement unlocked!” She sat back and smiled at the lighthouse tower, a visual metaphor for her lover. Gradually her breathing calmed. “Well. Have you got the energy to go for a romantic walk? The moon is coming up. I don't think I want to drive right now. I need to clean up a bit. I packed wet wipes. Here." She opened the packet and put it on the console for them both to use.

Vic was slumped back in his seat with a dazed, blissed-out grin, hair wild, shirt untucked, buttons popped, and his trousers pulled half down. He turned towards Pia, eyes heavy and voice rough with post-makeout satisfaction.

“I might never recover. My pride is intact. And yes, that was incredible. Rosalie’s upholstery will never be the same.” He reached out, gently brushing a hand down her arm, lips still shaped in a smirk. “But a moonlit walk with you? Yeah. That sounds perfect. If my legs will work.”

He popped his door open and winced as the cold night air hit him. “Okay, okay. I'm vertical. Barely.” He rearranged his clothing. “Let's go and see that lighthouse before one of us spontaneously combusts.”

The gravel crunched softly beneath their feet as they made their way toward the edge of the world.

Pia’s hand brushed against Vic’s, then slid into it, her fingers still warm from everything they’d just shared. He gave her a gentle squeeze, no words needed.

The Hornby Lighthouse glowed ahead, its broad red-and-white vertical stripes ghostly in the moonlight. The beam swept rhythmically out to sea and back round to the land, pulling long, turning shadows from the rocks and low scrub. The city’s noise was low here, muffled by distance, salt air and waves. Vic glanced over at Pia, whose face was turned upward, moonlight catching the amber tint of her glasses. A light breeze ruffled her short hair.

“You look like someone who’s trying to memorise the whole sky,” he said quietly. “What are you thinking about?”

"I'm thinking that I don't know any of the constellations down under, but anyway I only knew three in the northern sky, The Plough, Cassiopea, and Thingy. How many do you know, Vic? Can you point them out?

Vic tilted his head back, scanning the stars like he was lining up an old, half-forgotten map in his mind.

“I know a few,” he said, quietly proud. “Mostly because my dad was really into sailing and tried to make me learn how to navigate by the stars. In theory. I was twelve and mostly interested in Pokemon and football.” He pointed up with their joined hands. “That there’s the Southern Cross See the bright diamond shape? Like on the flag. It’s the only one I can find after four beers or during a camping trip toilet emergency.” He squinted.

“Over there’s Scorpio, I think, curved like a hook. Looks like a question mark if you squint sideways. And that smudge across the sky is part of the Milky Way.” He glanced at her and grinned. “Cassiopeia and Thingy are very respectable, by the way. I believe ancient astronomers also struggled with Thingy.”

He tugged her hand a little closer to his chest. “I could make one up and tell you it’s real. You’d never know. That one there? That’s the Constellation of the Wahine. The brightest star in the southern sky. Dangerous. Irresistible. Known for stealing hearts and Marmite.”

Pia grinned quietly in the near-dark, her face fleetingly illuminated when the beam of the searchlight swept overhead. She hugged tight to Vic, sharing body warmth in the cold evening air.

"You flatterer. Let's go back and find something to eat. We've done a lot of exercise."

Vic wrapped both arms around her in a firm, contented hug, resting his chin lightly against her temple.

“Flattery only works when it’s not true,” he murmured. “You, on the other hand, are scientifically dazzling.” He held her a moment longer, feeling the sea breeze tug at the hem of her skirt, and the soft weight of her leaning against him. Then he exhaled, smiling.

“Food. Yes. We’ve earned at least one deeply inappropriate meat pie and possibly a doughnut the size of my face.” He stepped back, still holding her hand. “Let’s get Rosalie rolling. I bet she performs best when rewarded with crumbs on the upholstery and the smell of curry sauce.”

Pia shook her phone into light to not accidentally step on dangerous ground. In 10 minutes Rosalie was moving slowly through the nearby town, where there was a not particularly good chip shop on the sea front facing the eastern channel into Sydney harbour. But Pia didn't care. Every meal needn't be gourmet. Hot chips and a long fat sausage reminded her of childhood days at the seaside. She looked at the glistening sausage and giggled.

"First time I've done that in a car, Vic. I once got a guy into a rowing boat and took him up the river for a picnic on an island. I tried to get him to skinny dip but he was a bit shy."

Vic chuckled as he blew on a too-hot chip, still cradling the greasy paper parcel between them like it was precious cargo.

“Wait, wait, you took him up the river?” he said, raising a brow with theatrical suggestiveness. “Is that another innuendo, or Pia creating folklore?” He tore off a piece of the sausage and offered it to her with mock solemnity.

“You’re like some urban legend. Beware the stunning woman with a micro jeep and strong opinions. She will feed you fried food and seduce you near major bodies of water.” He leaned back in the passenger seat, sighing in satisfaction as the steam from their unwrapped hot chips fogged the windscreen. “Honestly? This is great. Greasy chips, bad lighting, company so good I’d follow you up any river.” He looked over at her sideways, smiling. “Even if I had to skinny dip.”

Pia grinned back. “Remember when we first met, Vic, and you said you’d take me for a hot chips date? This is it. It’s perfect.”

They finished sharing the chips, and it was time to head home.

"You're welcome to stay over if you like Vic, but no more sex tonight. I can launder your shirt and undies by tomorrow morning, though."

Vic brushed the salt from his fingertips and smiled at her with a warm, sleepy sort of affection. “No sex, a ride home in Rosalie, and laundry included? That’s basically a deluxe package.” He reached over, gently running fingers through her hair.

“I’d like to stay. Just sleeping next to you is, really nice. I mean, not as nice as other things, but definitely top five.” He stretched a little, stifling a yawn. “I’ll even make coffee in the morning. You can supervise. Or lie in bed like a demanding goddess while I scavenge for clean mugs.” He buckled his seatbelt again, looking out at the quiet road ahead.

“Let’s take it slow on the way back. I want to make this night last.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 55: Improv Night

Friday night. Somewhere in Newtown.

The venue was a dimly lit, sticky floored comedy bar tucked between a vape shop and a vegan hamburger joint which looked ready to close down from lack of customers. Strings of LED lights were hung loosely across the low ceiling, catching in a mirror behind the bar so fogged with age that it turned everyone’s reflection into a sketchy Pepper’s Ghost. A sign out front read:

IMPROV MAYHEM: 5 MINUTES UNTIL LIVE!
No jokes about the bartender, please. She’s armed.

A less than full audience huddled at mismatched tables, sipping beer or house red wine, murmuring with that pre-show electricity, half anticipation, half dread. The stage was a battered platform with two stools and a slightly warped mic stand. A cheerful host in high-waist jeans and a vintage Hypersonic festival tee-shirt stepped up and tapped the mic.

“Alright, weirdos and theatre kids, next up we’ve got… Tobin and Jade? Hoo boy. Give it up for our brave lovers on a first blind date! Go get ’em!”

Vic, in his favourite soft flannel shirt and an alcohol boosted burst of courage, squeezed Pia’s hand one last time before leading the way up with mock reverence, mouthing, Trust me, I’ll be worse than you. He let her sit. Turned to face the crowd. Breathed in like he was preparing for athletic performance art.

“You know, Jade, when the app said your aura was ‘bloodstained lilac’, I thought it was just a glitch. But… Wow. You really do look like you’ve killed a man.”

The crowd tittered. Someone coughed. Someone else dropped a glass.

“What’s your sun sign? Wait, don’t tell me. Let me feel it.”

“Haven't you heard the song ‘Only Women Bleed’, Toby? It's Shark Week. I'm in a bad mood. I don’t want a sun sign. I need some proper nurturing.”

There was a tight pause in the room. Someone snorted beer out of their nose. In the second row, a woman with a close shaved head mouthed Shark Week to her friend and started giggling uncontrollably.

Vic, no, Tobin, nodded like he’d just been handed sacred scrolls.

“Wow. You’re so in touch with the female divine. It’s… powerful. The sacred blood rage. The lunar tide flowing through you like ancestral grief.” He reached for an imaginary bag in his pocket, then fumbled it open with theatrical care. “I brought you something. It’s, uh, raspberry leaf tea. And also a poem I wrote about uterine resilience. Would you like me to read it to you? Or would that violate your boundaries?”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.

“First the Sun signs, now the Moon signs. Make your mind up, Tony. I guess I'll have your tea and sympathy, though.” She shuffled her bum on her stool and sat up straight to listen to the poem properly.

His stool creaked as Tobin shifted toward her, clutching his imaginary teabag like it was a holy relic. The crowd was dead silent now, half afraid of the train crash, half craving it.

“It’s Tobin with an I N, actually. Like… like irony. Or intuition.”

He cleared his throat, took a beat, then delivered the poem in total seriousness.

Crimson bloom, your power flows,
A river ancient, fierce, God knows,
You bleed and still you do not break,
You bake. You ache. You hydrate.

Jade slowly arched her left eyebrow, then her right, so her eyes were wide open, then relaxed her brows until she was looking at Tobin through narrow slits.

He blinked twice, tilting his head, and nodded to Pia with complete sincerity.

“I wrote that in a tent in Mullumbimby during a cacao fast. I was vomiting a lot, but spiritually? I was very present.”

Someone in the crowd actually clapped. A voice called out, “HE’S TRYING HIS BEST!”

“So… what do you do, Jade? For work, I mean. Or your soul’s work. Or shadow work. Or murder work. Whatever.” He looked like he genuinely wanted to know.

“I'm a poet too,” Jade claimed. “I’ll prove it.”

You want a haiku?
Here's one I wrote for you.
I hope you like it.

The room shifted. A few audience members leant in. One guy in a beanie straightened up like he was about to witness the slam poetry finale at Burning Man.

Vic, Tobin, clutched the invisible tea to his chest like a newborn possum.

“You wrote me a haiku? That’s… wow. No one’s ever bled in syllables for me before.” He waited, breath held. Mouth slightly open.

A girl near the back muttered, “If she kills him in a poem, I’m gonna lose it.”

Pia, Jade, amped up her plummy British accent. "Mullimbimby isn't real, Tori. I went there and shot a drop bear. And what the fucc's a kakao fast?"

The room erupted. A wave of chaotic laughter crashed across the bar with high-pitched giggling, unhinged cackles, and the distinctive bark of a man who didn’t know how much he needed this set tonight.

Vic, Tobin, crushed and delighted, placed his hand over his heart like she’d just drop-kicked it.

“First of all… cacao fasts are real. It’s like... chocolate but without joy. It opens the heart chakra. And second,” He pointed vaguely, somewhere northeast, which was more or less the right direction. “Mullumbimby is real. I met a reiki healer named Maple. She made me cry with a tuning fork.”

There was scattered applause. A voice near the bar shouted, “FREE MAPLE.” Someone heckled, “Oi, mate, I’m from Mullumbimby.”

“But if you did shoot a drop bear… was it… coming right at you? Or was it a… metaphor?” He looked genuinely concerned now. Daring to reach out, hovering his hand above Pia’s like a wounded golden retriever begging forgiveness. “...Do you feel safe around me, Jade?”

Pia (as Jade) hissed, “You'd soon realise if I didn't, Tombi. I know Krav Maga. My last boyfriend found that out the hard way. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.” She grimaced a kind of smile, and put on a softer voice to ask, “May I have some gin to put in my raspberry tea?"

Gasps echoed. Half the room was now fully onboard with the idea that Jade might be out on parole. Someone muttered “Krav Maga?” like they thought it was a real place. At least three people Googled it on their phones and began to murmur that it was a martial art.

Vic, Tobin, drew his hand back slowly, his eyes wide and reverent. “…You’re like… an endangered animal. But one that bites.” He fumbled in his imaginary tote bag again, then triumphantly held out an invisible miniature bottle. “I brought gin. It’s artisanal. Infused with ethically foraged seaweed and shame.”

He tipped it toward her imaginary cup with both hands, like it was the Holy Eucharist. Then sat up straighter, visibly trying to reassert his role as tender alpha softboi by wriggling and relaxing his shoulders. “So… Jade, um… would you like to… see my vision board?”

“Is that some kind of an innuendo, Timbo?”

The crowd lost it again. One woman at the front clapped so hard she knocked over her wine.

“Er… No. It’s mostly spirals and mushrooms. But there’s also a picture of you. Or someone who looks like you. Holding a crossbow.” He smiled. Earnest. Stupid. Adoring. Waiting to be mauled.

Pia as Jade: “Aha? Thank you for my gin, it's an ancient medicine.” She pretended to drink. “I'm sensing that a vision board is basically a mood board on drugs, Tony. I approve of the crossbow. It has a low rate of fire but it’s almost completely silent. And you can recover the bolts with a good knife, and use them again.”

The crowd was hanging on every word now, collectively vibrating at the edge of losing it.

“Ancient medicine… wow. You really get things. Most people think gin is just for divorcees and botanists.” He watched her pretend to drink, nodding slowly, then placed his hands palms-down on the stool seat like he was grounding his chaotic energy through the Earth Goddess.

“And yeah, the vision board is kind of a vibe-laced cry for help. But that crossbow thing? Total synchronicity. I think… I think the universe is telling us something.” He leant forward enough to make the front row lean back, and stage whispered to her, “Would you… maybe… want to start a commune? Nothing intense. Just vibes. Chickens. Non-lethal perimeter security.”

The crowd screamed. Someone actually stamped their foot.

“We could call it ‘Bleeding Edge.’ Get it? Because… the cycles… and the weapons?” He had his stupid hopeful grin on again. The audience's energy was pure uncut chaos. They were begging for Jade to end him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Jade said, “A commune full of hot chicks? I get you now, Kody. You have hidden depths. I hope you like bi girls. I need to do a deep dive to cover my traces. Count me in!”

The bar exploded. A glass actually broke in the back, whether from applause or sheer spiritual release, it was unclear. The compere clutched their chest like someone just got engaged.

Vic, Tobin, was blinking rapidly, looking like he’d just been proposed to and stabbed, in the best way.

“You’d… join me? On the run? In our chicken-and-crystal utopia?” He sniffled. “I do like bi girls. I mean, respectfully. In a feminist, co-housing kind of way.” He reached out both hands to her now, trembling with fake emotion. “Jade. Darling. Can I call you darling? Would you… co-sign a compost bin with me?”

The audience went feral. A group near the bar started chanting, “CO-SIGN! CO-SIGN!” Even the bartender was smirking, arms crossed. Someone flicked on a phone flashlight like they were at a rock concert. The host, off-stage, laughing, came on to announce, “Give it up for Tobin and Jade, everybody! If they don’t get married or die trying, I don’t want it!”

Vic stood, offered a theatrical bow toward Pia, then mouthed, I blacked out, what just happened? before grinning like a man electrocuted by love. Pia danced off stage hand in hand with Vic. Something of the performance recalled her undercover life, when she inhabited various roles, including bar hostess, which required quick wits and snappy repartee.

"Goddess, that was so much fun, Vic! You were brilliant! Now let's have a real drink. We deserve it."

Vic couldn’t stop grinning as they leapt down from the stage like a pair of rogue thespians breaking out of gaol. He was still half in character, dazed and buzzing, but the sight of Pia, laughing, lit up, snapped him straight into reality.

“You killed it, Pia. Literally. I’m scared of you in new ways. It’s amazing.” He twirled her once, ridiculously, then wrapped an arm around her waist as they headed for the bar. The audience was still clapping. Someone tried to high-five him, but missed and hit his shoulder. Vic didn’t even flinch.

“I’ve never felt so sexually threatened and validated in my life.”

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 56: Karaoke Breakdown

A familiar voice piped up as they reached the bar. It was Camille, sipping from a martini glass, pretending to look shocked.

“Oh my God, Pia. I leave you alone for five minutes and suddenly you’re starting a cult?”

She was perched on a stool with her long legs crossed, her hair up, looking ten kinds of effortlessly French chic. There was lipstick on her glass and a glint in her eye. Camille’s student Timmo was propping up the bar beside her, with a schooner of beer in his hand.

“Mate, that was actually unironically inspiring. I think I wanna be a softboi now. Like, full compost-core. You feel me?” The barmaid shook her head, and plonked a promo glass of Collective Arts Fest Pineapple Vanilla IPA at his elbow

Vic stared at Timmo, then mock-gestured for his drink to be confiscated. Timmo held the middy out for Vic to take.

“Thanks for the beer. I feel like if you tried to get into Jade's commune, you’d get punched before the second haiku.”

“But seriously, chérie…” Camille told Pia, “You two had chemistry up there. Is this a thing now? Do I need to make an application?” She arched a finely lined brow.

The music picked up in pace. Someone started dragging a karaoke setup toward the stage.

"Camille!" Pia gave the French girl la bise. Timmo looked hopeful and nervous but Pia just smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "How are you doing, Timmo?" Turning back to Camille. "J'aime beaucoup que tu ne portes pas de rouge à lèvres anti-baisers. Il a tellement d'utilité. Quoi de plus élégant que de laisser une marque sur le col de la chemise de son amant pour lancer un défi à sa femme ?"

Camille glowed under Pia’s greeting, meeting her with swift, practiced kisses to both cheeks, mwah, mwah, before drawing back to admire the spectacle of her.

"Enfin, someone else who understands the theatre of lipstick. If I can't ruin a marriage or stain a goblet, what's the point?"

She lifted her glass in salute and winked. Timmo had given a valiant little puff of his chest when Pia clapped him on the shoulder, now he was nodding too fast.

“Yeah, nah, good, all good, honestly wasn’t sure if that whole thing up there was, like, improv or foreplay or just your origin story, but I respected it.”

Vic nearly choked on his free IPA. “She did threaten to shoot me. But that was just in character. I think.”

Camille spoke on in French. "Vic est complètement sous le charme, tu sais. Ça émane de lui comme la chaleur d'une baguette fraîche." Then she casually switched back to English, her eyes glinting. “I hope you’re both signing up for karaoke, by the way. Timmo’s already decided he’s doing ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’. Again.”

“There’s drama in it!” Timmo said defensively.

The tipsy emcee climbed up on stage and called out, “Sign-ups open for karaoke! This is a no shame zone!”

The crowd started rustling again. Camille leant toward Pia.

“So. Solo or duet? Or shall we try a ménage à trois vocal?” She raised a perfectly shaped brow and offered her lipstick for touch-ups, in case Pia wanted to leave more marks before the night was through.

"I'd love to do a duet with you, Camille. Perhaps it can be a love song and make all the boys jealous and randy. And the girls."

“Ooh, ma tigresse, you really do know how to make a girl swoon. I accept, in hope we make at least one man in the audience drop his drink in longing.”

She looped her arm through Pia’s and pulled her toward the control console like they were planning a heist, tossing a smirk over her shoulder at Vic and Timmo. “You two hold down the bar. We’re about to make history.”

Vic watched them go, his hands in his pockets, and his eyebrows raised.

“I don’t know if I’m aroused or about to get kicked in the heart,” Timmo said.

“Respect it, mate. That’s the Pia Experience. Embrace the chaos.”

Camille was flipping through the Karaoke machine menus with purpose.

"We need something smouldering, but ironic. Sexy, but tragic. Like love during a plague year." She pointed. “This one, Pia. This shall be our anthem.”

The song was ‘Criminal,’ by Fiona Apple. It started with a slow, taunting bassline. The bartender turned the lights a shade more crimson. Someone wolf-whistled. Camille handed Pia a mic like it was a loaded pistol. Stage smoke wafted up. She murmured in Pia’s ear as the music started, “Let’s give them something to crave, chérie. Then go home with the ones who can handle it.” She raised her mic. The opening riff pulsed.

Pia didn't know the song, but she had a decent voice, and plenty of experience with karaoke in the hostess bars of Kabukicho, where they take it seriously. So she held her mic with confidence, and began to sway to the rhythm.

The lyrics started to roll across the screen. Pia tackled the ‘bad, bad girl’ line with flair, but as the song progressed through the singer's apology for breaking a boy's heart, and her wish for a defence, perhaps a redemption, Pia's face crumpled into a memory of horror and tears. The lyrics brought back her long held guilt about Hisashi, the boy she still could not accept she didn't wrong so badly in Tokyo, years before.

Pia burst into a flood of tears, dropped the mic and slouched off the stage blindly, wiping and smearing her eyes.

The room, noisy, flushed with drink and laughter just moments ago, went quiet like a switch had flipped.

Camille, mid-verse, cut off instinctively the moment Pia's voice wavered. She turned toward her, eyes widening as she saw the grief bloom across her friend’s face like a storm front approaching in fast-forward.

“Pia, oh no.” Pia's mic made a crackle and whine of feedback. People in the front row stiffened; others murmured, uncomfortable and unsure as she disappeared off stage in a blur of tears, her elegant posture broken, hands swiping across her face like she was trying to erase herself. Camille followed immediately, ditching her own mic without a word.

Vic was already in motion.

He pushed through the cluster of startled karaoke hopefuls, brushing past the bar and following the path Pia took through the heavy side curtain to the green room hallway out back. He didn’t yell after her. Didn’t grab. He just moved, zeroed in, scanning every dark corner.

Vic found Pia outside, near the smoking area where there was just one flickering light above a graffiti-tagged skip bin. The night was starting to get cold. The air smelt faintly of stale piss and beer and cigarette butts and bin juice.

“Hey. Hey, Pia…”

He didn’t reach for her yet. Just stood a few steps away, letting her feel the space.

“You were incredible. Until it hurt. Then you were human. Still incredible.”

He waited. Giving her space but ready to come closer. His heart felt like it was in his throat.

Inside, the karaoke picked up again, someone trying to salvage the vibe with “Livin’ on a Prayer”, a valiant effort.

Out back it was just the two of them.

He watched her silhouette against the night, breathing a little hard, and asked, “Do you want me to leave you alone… or come closer?”

"Hold me, Vic. You told me not to blame myself for what happened. If I still do, maybe you can be my redemption."

She hung on Vic's neck, blubbering snot into his flannel shirt. Camille and Timmo came out of the bar. They had the sense not to interrupt the scene between Vic and Pia. He gentled the sobbing girl until she began to calm down.

"I'm sorry, Camille,” she choked out. “That song, I didn't know it. It brought back a memory of something I did. A bad thing. A very bad thing I did to a boy. Vic knows the story." Tacitly granting permission for Vic to explain if he thought it was a good idea.

Vic held her like she might slip through the cracks in the pavement if he didn’t. Arms locked around her, hand cradling the back of her head.

“You didn’t do a bad thing. You survived a bad story.”

He let her cry it out, stroking her back in slow, even circles. Her wet cheek pressed against his neck. His shirt was a wreck but he couldn’t care less. He’d never wanted to protect someone so fiercely in his life.

Behind them, Camille and Timmo lingered at the edge of the pool of light. Camille’s arms were crossed, but her face was full of concern, not judgement or pity, just quiet solidarity. Timmo, for once, said nothing.

When Pia began to quiet, tired, damp, but no longer trembling, Vic turned slightly so she could rest against his chest. He kept one arm firm around her waist, his other hand brushing damp hair from her temple.

“She was undercover in Tokyo.” he explained quietly. “There was a guy, a sweet one. Not part of the target. Not part of anything. But he got pulled into it.” He hesitated, glancing at Pia. Her nod was small but present.

“He loved her. She loved him, but she couldn’t tell him what she was doing. And when the job ended… it ended hard. He got hurt. Emotionally. Worse. And Pia blames herself for what happened. Even though she didn’t have a choice. Even though she was just doing her job. She carries the memory like an invisible scar.”

Camille slowly walked forward, her heels clicking softly on the pavement, then crouched in front of Pia with the ease of a woman who’s helped drunk friends throw up in gutters and still made them feel chic.

“Ma belle. No lipstick in the world can make you forget who you were. But it doesn’t mean you can’t be someone else now. Someone who is loved. Someone who is forgiven. Even by yourself.” She offered a fresh handkerchief.

Timmo said. “I, uh. I don’t know what to say, except… You’re still the coolest person I’ve ever seen cry.”

Vic smiled gently. His thumb traced a line along Pia’s collar bone. The back alley was cold, and though the smell hadn’t improved, her friends around her felt almost like a sanctuary.

“You’re not a bad girl,” he told Pia. “You’ve just got a heart with some bruises. And anyone who’s met you, really met you, knows the difference.”

The karaoke belted on inside, oblivious.

Pia nodded. Her tears had eased because any storm must pass.

"I look a right mess." She mopped her face with Camille's handkerchief. "Let's go home. Camille, Timmo, will you come with us? I want to tell you what happened."

Camille rose gracefully and helped Pia to repair the worst damage to her make-up. “Tu es magnifique même en larmes, darling. But yes. Let’s get you somewhere with cushions and gin.”

She gave Pia’s hand a warm squeeze before looping her arm through Timmo’s, steering him along like a sleepy labrador. He told Pia, “I’m cool with whatever you want to say. Just, maybe not in an alley next to a guy vomiting on a Subaru.”

Vic let out a low breath, something close to a short, nervous laugh, and guided Pia gently by the small of her back toward his Audi.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 57: Old-Fashioneds and Other Truths

The lights were low. Shoes off, coats and jackets hung up. The comforting clink of glass on glass as Vic opened a bottle and began to pour a round. Camille paced barefoot through the space like she owned it already, though it was her first visit. Timmo hovered, unsure where to sit, and ended up cross-legged on the rug with a gin and tonic that Vic handed him.

Pia had washed her face, but her eyes still held that puffy, red-rimmed softness that only follows real weeping. Vic didn’t crowd her. He sat beside her on the sofa, near enough to touch, far enough not to encroach.

Camille curled up in an armchair, her legs folded like a cat. She raised her glass.

“To theatre. To truth. To women who scare the hell out of men.” She sipped and waited.

Vic looked to Pia. It was her moment.

"Give me a real drink. An Old-Fashioned." Vic smashed it together and Pia took a deep pull.

"First, I'm sorry to have bust up what was a great night for everyone. I never knew that Fiona Apple track before, Camille. Neither of us could have realised what it was going to do. But anyway, I owe you an explanation." She drank again, composed herself, getting the narrative into a clear order in her head.

“Vic's let slip that I used to be a detective. I specialised in undercover roles. Typically things like being a ditzy secretary to gather evidence on financial crimes. That Bunny Girl pic, Timmo, the one I showed you at Renée’s party. That was taken during a case when I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, recording snippets of indiscreet conversation on a digital wire unit hidden in my wig. My earrings were the microphones." She paused to see if everyone was keeping up with the story.

Timmo, who’d been swirling his gin like it might reveal a prophecy, looked up fast. His face shifted, from the usual Timmo banter setting to something more grounded. He was following closely.

“Wait, you actually were a Bunny Girl? Not just for a fancy dress party or somethin’? That was, like… mission gear?” His voice wasn’t mocking. He was genuinely impressed. Pia nodded silently.

Camille, by contrast, didn’t interrupt. She leant in slightly, eyes narrowed with curiosity, not scepticism. One leg bounced faintly. She was intrigued but measured. “Go on. I’m with you.”

Vic didn’t move. He watched Pia as if she was something rare and wild. He knew where the story was headed, but not how she would tell it. And that mattered.

There was a shared hush between them now. A gin-glass pause. The smoke from toxic memories curled up between every line. The room held its breath.

"I made some good money off that case,” Pia went on. “Not just the reward. I gambled and made a big score.” She smiled sardonically. “I have a tendency to engage in high risk behaviour. Not proud of it." This wasn't the whole truth, but it was a plausible explanation for Pia's obvious lack of worry about her financial position. "So I took a year off and went to Tokyo to stay with my brother and his wife and learn Japanese. I got a job in a hostess club, for language practice and pin money. I was popular because a lot of Japanese men have a thing for leggy blondes."

Timmo gave a low, almost involuntary “Whoa,” then looked like he immediately regretted saying it. He leant forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes earnest.

“Sorry, that sounded dodgy. Just, I’m picturing you in Tokyo doing all that and it’s like… a movie. But a real one, not the dumb kind. A moody one. With rain and neon.”

“There’s a lot of neon in Kabukicho, Timmo. That’s where Ridley Scott got some of the ideas for Bladerunner. Those long canyons of glowing light. But there are dark alleys too.”

Camille didn’t smile. She set her glass aside, not because she was uncomfortable, but because she was tuned in completely now, no more performative poses, just a friend quietly bracing herself for whatever Pia might say next. “You don’t have to dress this up for us, Pia. If it hurts, just say it. I won’t flinch.”

Vic finally spoke in a low, steady voice. “You don’t have to make yourself sound cool to justify the pain.” He looked down at Pia’s hands for a moment, then back to her face. “But if it helps to explain it all in your way… I’ll follow you wherever it goes.” He was close enough to touch her knee if she needed grounding. But he wouldn’t move until she led him.

"I want to make it clear that hostessing isn't prostitution,” Pia told them, “It's just paid flirting. You pour drinks and chat, listen to the guys complaining or joking, maybe play cards for sticks of chewing gum, or sing karaoke with them. However in Japan it's covered under these adult entertainment business laws, which also cover actual prostitution. So the police would come around to check that everything was legit. That's how I met Komai. He was a detective sergeant in the Tokyo Met." She sipped her Old-fashioned. "Komai recruited me as an informant for a sex trafficking case he was working on. I did it for free, because it's one of the worst crimes and I had heard some things, from clients and the other girls, which made me uneasy." Pia finished her cocktail and waved the glass to ask for another.

Vic quietly took her glass, brushing his fingers against hers just long enough to let her feel he was still right there, fully present. He got up to mix her another Old-Fashioned, larger this time, and perfectly balanced. He didn't say a word as he stirred the drink.

Timmo was unusually still. His brow was creased, expression unreadable. “You did that just to help? No pay? No backup?” There was no mockery in it. Just his dawning awareness of what kind of metal Pia was made of.

Camille shifted in her seat again, tucking her legs beneath her like she needed grounding. “Mon Dieu. Of course you did. That kind of danger… that kind of filth… and you still chose to help.”

Vic returned, kneeling briefly to hand Pia the second cocktail with both hands, like a peace offering or a ritual, before he sat beside her again. “You don’t have to keep talking. But if you want to… we’ll all keep listening.” He sat with one elbow on the back of the couch, his body turned toward her like a shield made from snot-damp flannel and patience. The room was still. No one reached for their phones. The night had turned sacred.

Pia accepted the glass from Vic with a grateful smile.

"Now I've begun, I want to finish. So there I was, playing at being a hostess and secret spy. Outside work I had a boyfriend, a Japanese guy called Hisashi. My sister-in-law Hikaru had introduced us because Hisashi was studying French and I speak like a native. She said at the beginning, 'Pia, be careful with him. Don't break a boy's heart for a bit of holiday fun.' She swirled the ice in her glass.

"Pia is my special nickname, Timmo. I only let close friends and family use it. You can call me Pia from now on."

Timmo looked like he’d been knighted. His face flickered from surprised to sheepish to deeply touched in the space of a heartbeat.

“Thanks, Pia. I won’t screw that up.” He raised his glass, not to toast, just to acknowledge the gift.

Camille watched the moment with a small smile, her head tilted slightly, as though seeing Pia through a new lens. “So you did love him. This Hisashi.” She asked gently, offering a prompt to the next part of the story.

Vic didn’t speak. But his gaze was steady, protective without being possessive. One leg crossed casually over the other, one hand resting near Pia’s on the couch, close, not quite touching. He listened. Not like a man hearing about a rival. Someone honouring a story that had shaped the woman he was beginning to love.

"Yes, Camille, we fell in love. We were both 24. Young enough and old enough. In the end Hisashi proposed to me. I didn’t expect it. I might have accepted, but Komai had warned me that I was in danger because the clues I had given him were so useful against the sex trafficking gang. When Hisashi proposed, I thought I had to protect him, get him away from me, so I created a quarrel and refused him. We stormed off in opposite directions. Later that night he went under a train. Everyone thought it was suicide. I blamed myself. Hikaru blamed me. Yancy stood with Hikaru, as she's his wife. Komai got me out of Tokyo and flew me to Paris via Seoul. I missed the funeral. But they probably would have thrown things at me.”

Camille’s breath caught subtly. Her hand curled at her chest like she was trying to hold the story physically. “Mon cœur…” Her voice broke at the end. No judgment. No questions. Just the shared ache of a wound that’s years deep after only minutes of telling.

Timmo didn’t speak at all. His drink was forgotten in his hand. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He looked pale and fiercely respectful.

Vic exhaled, slow and heavy. He nodded once, not like he’d just learned something new, but like he’d finally seen the shape of what he’s carried with her. “Thank you for trusting them with that. With him.” He reached across the space between them and placed his hand over hers, warm and steady.

“You were trying to save him, Pia. And even if it went wrong, that doesn’t mean you were wrong. You weren’t cruel. You weren’t careless. You were scared, and brave, and trying to protect the man you loved. That matters.” He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t offer closure. He knew there wasn't a proper closure to this trauma. But he let his presence be something more than words.

Camille rose slowly, crossed to the sofa and knelt beside Pia, wrapping her arms around her in a hug that was neither too soft nor too restrained. A precise, Camille-style embrace.

“You have people to stand with you.” The room held still. Even the city seemed quieter for a moment, like the world was giving Pia a second heartbeat.

"It wasn't suicide,” Pia said. “Komai found out later what really happened. A gangster pushed Hisashi off the platform. But anyway,” she sighed, “I still blame myself because I sent Hisashi off to die unhappy, angry and feeling unloved, and I still think that was the worst thing I ever did." She broke down in tears again.

Vic pulled her in without hesitation, no dramatics, just his arms, solid and certain, like a harbour welcoming in a storm-tossed ship. He wrapped her in, let her bury her face in his chest, and held her like he meant it.

“You didn’t kill him, Pia. You loved him. You tried to save him.” His voice was low and firm, not for arguing but anchoring. A hand stroked gently through her hair as she sobbed.

Camille moved back just enough to give them space, blinking fast. She stayed kneeling, her hand still lightly on Pia’s arm, like a steady pulse of shared grief. No one moved to tidy the scene. They let it be raw.

Timmo stayed rooted, eyes dark with something unspoken. Then said quietly, “If someone did that to a mate of mine, to someone I loved, I’d want to burn the whole city down. But I wouldn’t blame the person who tried to keep them safe.” He paused. “You’re allowed to mourn him, Pia. Just don’t disappear with him. People need you here.”

Vic tightened his hold slightly, breathing against her temple. The tears came in waves, smaller now, maybe an ebb tide. Outside, the city hummed on, unaware. But in the room, a tiny circle of people who now knew everything and still loved her, the night began to change shape. Vic didn’t say it yet. But he thought it: *You’re still here. And I’m not letting you go.*

Pia cried herself out again, and began to pull herself together. She blotted her tears with the arm of her dress, blinked, and drained her drink.

"I'm sorry for everything. Thank you for being with me. For listening to my confession. I'd better go to sleep now." She started to move around, preparing for her bed, trusting Vic and the others to organise themselves.

Camille rose, brushing her knees with a sigh that was half fondness, half heartbreak. “Go rest, ma belle. You’ve given more than enough for one night.” She smoothed Pia’s hair briefly with sisterly affection before retrieving her heels and slipping them on with practiced grace.

“Keep her safe, Vic. She’ll wake raw. Timmo, You and I are going to leave like proper thieves, silent and a little dramatic.”

“I’ll just wash up the glasses,” Timmo said.

Vic saw them to the door with a quiet nod of thanks.

When Pia emerged from the bathroom, face clean, eyes puffy but calm, wearing a simple short sleeve, round neck nightdress and shorts in black silk, she found the flat quiet, the lights low, the air scented with briney tears and gin.

Vic was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair messy. He had stripped down to a soft tee and boxers, making no assumptions, just waiting. Ready if needed. Absent if preferred. “Do you want me with you tonight? Or just nearby?”

"This wasn't a huge quarrel to follow with fabulous make-up sex, Vic. I'll love you best if you just hold me.” Pia sighed deeply as she sat down next to him. “What an evening! The improv was actually great, but the scene afterwards... But I feel like I've got a bit of redemption. Thanks to you and the others. Especially you."

She slipped under the duvet and listened to the sounds of the night. The muted hum of traffic on the M1. The wind stirring the trees in the communal garden. The gas boiler igniting with a woof to refill the hot water tank.

"You're more than a friend to me, Vic," she murmured.

Vic slid in beside her like the night was made to hold her gently. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and tucked her in close, her head resting just under his chin. There was no sexual heat in it, just a comforting presence.

“You’re more than a friend to me too, Pia.”

He didn’t press with his words. Just traced lazy, soothing circles over her scarred shoulder with his thumb, grounding her in the here and now.

Outside, the city breathed. A night bus sighed its doors open, and closed. Laughter drifted from a pub down the block. And inside, between the safe warmth of the duvet and Vic’s calm breath, Pia’s world narrowed to something bearable.

“You didn’t get redemption from me or the others. You got it from yourself. We just reminded you what you’re worth.” A moment. “Also, I’m never playing anyone named Tobin again. He was exhausting.”

He kissed the back of Pia’s head. Felt her cheek crease in a tiny grin. Let the silence fall softly around them. Sleep found them slowly.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 58: The First Day of the Rest of our Lives

The bedroom was dim and hushed. There was a faint hum of traffic in the streets of Surry Hills. Morning light filtered in around the edges of the blinds, casting pale gold on the tangled duvet. The air still carried the scent of Creed Erolfa, and a faint trace of last night’s tears.

Vic stirred when he heard the alarm, but he didn't open his eyes. He reached across the bed instinctively, hand landing in the warm hollow where Pia had been. Her absence made his chest ache with a bittersweet kind of tenderness.

*She’s up. Of course she is.*

He sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his face. His hair was a disaster and he still smelt like stale beer and lemon-scented laundry detergent. Last night replayed in fragments, laughter at the bar, Pia-as-Jade slinging deadpan lines, the way she’d faltered mid-karaoke song, like a record catching on a bad scratch. Her sobs in his arms, hot and sudden and shattering.

And the quiet miracle of her trust.

*God, she told us everything. She told me everything.*

The inviting smell of fresh coffee drifted into the room. He was tempted into the kitchen, blinking against the gentle light.

“Morning,” he called, voice still scratchy. He leant against the counter, watching Pia in her silk dressing gown as she moved about with unhurried grace, so normal, and yet so different. Like someone who had unburdened herself of a heavy load and was still adjusting to the absence of its weight.

“You okay, sunshine? Last night was. A thing.” His eyes were soft and serious. There was a kind of wonder in his face. Like she had come through a major storm and he was still trying to believe she didn’t get wrecked by it.

Pia paused, thinking.

"Yes. It was a lot of fun at first, the improv, and then there was a lot of pain, and yet I feel much better because of it. I've had plenty of therapy for other things that happened to me, but I never got any for losing Hisashi. Which was probably a mistake. Goddess know, I could have afforded it. Probably a deliberate unconscious choice to…” She sighed deeply, “To carry the burden of guilt, and expiate my sin through suffering. Have you ever done therapy, Vic?”

Vic shook his head. Pia continued.

“The thing about therapy is, you sit there, and you talk, and they talk, and everyone is kind and understanding, and they give you helpful guidance, but it's a different thing when you tell your friends. Because if your friends accept you with your faults and wounds, then life is real. Not just a medical consultation going according to plan. Real life going just okayish is better. If that makes any sense."

Vic took the words in slowly, giving them the careful attention they deserved. He watched her eyes, hazel, glinting gold in the morning light, steady and unflinching.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice soft. “That does make sense. It makes perfect sense, actually.”

He didn’t press her for the deeper things still unspoken. He was no stranger to locked doors in people’s hearts, but the fact that she had given him this much, that she let him hold her through the darkest part of the night, meant everything. It had shifted something inside him, like the spillway on a dam opened to allow the water to flow.

“Thank you for being with me, Vic.” Pia held out her arms wide for a hug, her robe slipped open by accident, and she invited Vic into her half-naked self, unembarrassed.

When she opened her arms, he moved instinctively, closing the space between them. Her gown opened as she folded him in, but Pia didn’t flinch, and he didn't make a joke or leer. He just held her, warm and grounding, pressing his cheek against her damp hair. His hands rubbed slow circles over her back, all tenderness and quiet strength.

“I’m always gonna be with you, Pia. Even when it’s painful. Especially then.” His mouth made a felt though not seen little smile against her temple. “And real life going okayish with you sounds like the best damn thing I’ve ever heard.”

He tilted back enough to meet her eyes again. “We should definitely go show off Rosalie to the crew. Let them bask in your glory a little. I’ll bring the snacks, like a good, emotionally available himbo.”

"You're not a himbo to me, Vic. You've got a lot of common sense and... Grounding. Like you can be my calm centre. Or maybe a lightning rod. I don't know. My rock."

She smiled, and it looked genuine this time. The prospect of action, the need for an organised plan, added structure to Pia's day, and worked as emotional scaffolding.

Vic raised an eyebrow at ‘you’re not a himbo,’ a lopsided grin forming despite himself. “Oh no,” he deadpanned. “You take that back. I’ve worked very hard to earn my himbo certification. There were a lot of forms I had to fill up. And a biceps measurement. I had to fail a pop quiz about the Cold War.” But there was no mistaking the warmth in his eyes when she called him her calm centre, her lightning rod.

*That’s... Something. That’s real.*

Pia hustled around the kitchen, slapping together a simple breakfast of tuna melt sandwiches and a salad she had made in bulk on Thursday and kept in Tupperware the fridge. She talked fast at the same time.

"Anyway Vic, you need to zoom over to your place and collect your beach stuff. Go and wash and get dressed while I make breakfast. You can help me put my board on Rosalie and then you can go over to your flat. Which, by the way, you've never invited me properly to stay, only for that one afternoon, and we were kind of busy. I've got some suspicions about why not. But we'll deal with it later. I'll finish packing my beach stuff and go and pick up Camille and come down to yours afterwards. Dan and Kiri are in their own car."

He watched her with a kind of awe as she switched into action mode. There was a military efficiency to her when she was structuring the day, flitting between tasks, directing traffic, making tuna melts like a general marshaling troops. It was like she was rebuilding herself in real time. He followed her instructions with a mock salute.

“Aye aye, Commander Reese. I’ll grab my gear and rendezvous at 1100 hours.” He moved toward the bathroom door, paused, and gave her a longer look.

“And for the record,” he said more softly, “I haven’t invited you to stay overnight at mine because… Yeah. That’s a whole thing. Not because I don’t want you there. Just… Not yet. Okay?” He let that hang for a second, vulnerable and honest, before flashing her a smile. “Now make that melt amazing or I’ll cry in my car.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

It was tinned tuna in brine, the best variety for a melt. Pia added a flourish, mixing chopped capers into the mayonnaise, and slapping some rather fruity rind-washed cheese on top before she slid the slices under the grill. The bread was a good wholewheat sourdough. Her British half firmly believed in the importance of a hearty breakfast. Her French half insisted on high quality ingredients. As Pia prepared the rations, she pondered Vic's cryptic remarks.

*Has he got his place into that much of a mess? Because he hasn't got a girlfriend to keep it clean for? But I'm his girlfriend now. He should let me in. Maybe he’s let it all go completely to hell. Maybe it's worse than I can possibly imagine? Maybe he just thinks that.* She could not puzzle it out.

*I shouldn't force the issue now.*

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 59: Push The Button

Vic showed Pia how to stow her surfboard safely on top of Rosalie, then he set off for his flat to prepare all his things. Pia cleaned her kitchen and prepped for the beach. Her Moon cup. Spare period panties and pads. Waterproof makeup with a high SPF factor, and so on. Her Mondrian skinsuit and a floaty yellow sundress on top. She put two eskies of drinks and snacks in the back of the car, and rang Camille.

"Coucou, Camille..."

“Coucou, ma chérie!” Camille’s voice was bright and syrupy, laced with the rustle of bed linen and the clink of a teaspoon. “You’re up early. You’re all better from last night? I was just making lemon tea and wondering if it’s too soon to start pretending I don’t have a uterus. So what’s the plan?”

Pia could hear soft jazz playing faintly in the background, and the way Camille said ‘uterus’ sounded like she was announcing a couture designer. It must have been that time of the month for Camille too.

“I assume we’re beachward?” Camille continued. “Please tell me you’ve got Vic under control and this isn’t a trap to make me carry your umbrella while you seduce someone’s emotionally distant cousin.” She yawned, unbothered. “I’m nearly in a swimsuit. Just say when and I’ll hop into something and meet you downstairs.”

Meanwhile, Vic pulled up in the narrow car space at his building in Bronte, still slightly damp-haired and glowing from Pia’s morning whirlwind. A pang of self-consciousness hit him in the gut as he unlocked the front door to his unit.

*This place is fine,* he told himself. *It’s fine. Just a bit messy. A bit... Surfy. Needs some sweeping and dusting, and probably check the fridge and clean the kitchen. And the bathroom. And change the sheets. And do some laundry. And the windows.*

He stepped inside. It smelt like eucalyptus and coconut sunscreen and maybe something musky from a pile of discarded clothes by the bathroom door. It was a warm, open-plan unit, a bit shabby, with big French windows opening onto a balcony with a sea view if you craned your neck a bit. Plants that needed watering. An abandoned, half-finished model car on the coffee table. He stared at that for a second.

*Pia’ll be here eventually. Just not yet.*

He moved quickly to pick fresh clothes, gather towels, sunscreen, a speaker, and the good parasol, and grabbed an extra jumper for her, just in case.

In Surry Hills, Rosalie was loaded and ready.

Camille’s voice was back in Pia’s ear. “Do I need to bring anything? Should I pick up that fancy hibiscus iced tea from the French delicatessen? Am I riding with you, or do I drive my own car? Because you have to fight for a decent parking space at the beach.”

"There's a British saying my father taught me: 'Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance’. So I reserved a parking spot online. I'll pick you up in 15 minutes, with your most glamorous swimming costume. Put something more dressy on top, in case we all go for a meal later."

“Oh là là, your papa sounds like a terrifying logistics officer,” Camille laughed, clearly impressed. “You reserved parking in advance? What are you, a wizard? That’s better planning than my last three relationships combined.”

There was a brief pause as she rustled around, clearly rummaging through a drawer.

“All right then. I’ll wear the emerald green one-piece with the plunging back, it’s elegant, it says I am not trying but I will ruin lives. And I’ll throw a maxi dress over it. You’ll like it. A bit of cleavage, a bit of mystery. Not a lot of mystery. Just enough mystery. Très beach-to-bar.”

She lowered her voice mischievously. “And don’t worry, I’ll behave. I won’t interrogate Vic in front of everyone. Just behind a large pair of sunglasses with a mimosa in hand. See you in fifteen, darling.”

Camille hung up with a dramatic little mwah.

Back in Bronte, Vic had changed into simple board shorts and a soft white tee, sunnies perched on his head, hair damp from a quick rinse. He surveyed his bag: towels, drinks, jumper for Pia, Bluetooth speaker, and, at the last moment, a battered paperback copy of The Old Man and the Sea. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right kind of day for Hemingway.

*Maybe I’ll actually read on the beach instead of just pretending.*

He began a whirlwind tidy up campaign, distracted by the thought of what Pia would look like in her sundress.

Pia collected Camille, gave her 'la bise', and installed her in the front passenger seat.

"You look stunning as always, Camille. I wish I had thought of a maxi dress, or perhaps a skirt and top combo.”

“Darling, you could wear a bin liner and still look like a Vogue editorial spread. But yes, the maxi dress was an inspired choice. I plan to waft dramatically at all times today.”

Pia smiled, and they set off for Bronte where Vic had his little flat. Camille adjusted the seat and flipped the visor down to check her lipstick in the mirror. She tucked her sunglasses into her auburn curls and glanced sideways at Pia with sharp curiosity as they cruised out of Surry Hills.

“We have to zoom over to Vic's place next,” Pia told her. “I know the address, but I've only been inside once, for a short afternoon. I have begun to wonder why he hasn't invited me again. Maybe he’s turned it into… I don’t know. A complete mess. Knee deep in delivery burger wrappers. Or a weird shrine to past girlfriends. What do you think?"

“So, Vic’s never invited you back properly, hmm? That is interesting.”

She drew the word out like it was a piece of chewing gum she was turning over on her tongue.

“Let’s consider the possibilities,” she mused, eyes sparkling. “One: he’s secretly married with two toddlers and a shiba dog. Two: the place is a bachelor hovel full of mismatched mugs, chipped surfboards, and a suspicious smell. Three: it’s full of memories he hasn’t sorted through. Exes. Family stuff. Boy-thoughts.”

Camille gave Pia a meaningful look. “Or four: he’s scared. Scared because he likes you too much, and letting you into his space means letting you into the rest of his life. And maybe he doesn’t know how to do that without crumbling a little. Last night was a big thing for you. Maybe this is his version of that. Some people don’t say things. They just flinch when you get close to the wound. Especially men.”

She stretched one leg out, admiring her pedicure. “Anyway. If he doesn’t let us in today, I’ll ‘accidentally’ drop a bottle of sticky sunscreen on myself and insist on using his bathroom. You’re welcome.”

"It could be a bit of everything, maybe. Well, not the spare wives and girlfriends. I try not to leave him the energy. Ha ha!" Pia gave a dirty chortle.

Camille cackled, delighted. “Ha! You absolute animal. No wonder the poor man hasn’t found the strength to open the door to you. He’s probably crawling across his floor like a Victorian ghost.” She fanned herself dramatically with one hand. “Honestly, Pia, between your breakfasts, tailored sundresses, and the emotional whiplash of last night, it’s a miracle he’s still upright. I wouldn’t be shocked if he opens the door today and just bursts into tears and marriage proposals.”

Bronte began to shimmer into view, the distant sea glittering between buildings, surfboards stacked on balconies, and cafés blooming with sunhatted locals.

As Rosalie purred into the quieter, leafier streets of the suburb, the mood shifted slightly, lighter, still cheeky, but threaded with something tender.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Camille asked, not teasing now. Just wondering aloud, watching Pia’s face in profile. “Like, for real. Do you think you’ll tell him everything? Even the things you haven’t said yet?”

Pia looked serious, pretended to need to navigate a difficult stretch of narrow road. There was a massive ute glued to her rear bumper. The driver honked. Pia stuck her right arm out of the window and gave him the British hand sign for feth Off, which works just as well in Australia too.

"I will tell everyone everything when I feel ready. I told you and Timmo last night, about my worst bad thing. I've done other bad things. People I want around me, have the right to know the things I've done. If they despise or fear me after they hear it, I can't blame them. But I'm afraid to tell Vic, because you're right, Camille, we're falling in love. What if he falls back out?"

Camille watched the ute disappear in the rear mirror with a satisfied smirk. “God, I love you. That’s the spirit.” Then she reached over, placed her perfectly manicured hand on Pia’s thigh with a gentle squeeze. “Okay. Listen.”

The ocean came into full view now, sudden and brilliant, sky meeting sea at a horizon so blue it hurt.

“You don’t owe anyone a timeline, ma sœur. Not even him. But also, don’t confuse survival for sin. You’ve done things to get through hell. You’ve done things to protect people. That’s not shameful. That’s powerful. And messy. And so deeply human.”

She turned to face Pia as the car slowed into Vic’s street. “If he falls out of love because you told him the truth, then it wasn’t love. It was a fantasy. And you don’t need a fantasy. You need someone who’s brave enough to see the wreckage and still say, ‘That’s my girl. That’s the woman I choose.’”

Then, because she knew Pia’s heart was clenched tight already, she grinned again and added, “Besides, if he does break your heart, I will key his Audi to scrap. That’s not a threat. It’s a promise. I'm great at spelling curses with scratches.”

Vic’s unit was just around the corner, the little not quite coastal building with sunburnt paint and a row of mismatched succulents on the balcony. The rattly old Audi was parked neatly out front, two surfboards lashed to the roof rack.

Camille straightened up and flicked her sunglasses into place.

“Ready to enter the man cave?”

Pia smiled at Camille, and nodded wordless thanks for all her encouragement and advice. She parked on the wrong side of the road, which was a bad thing in Australia -- in fact it was illegal, $160 fine -- but in her distracted state of mind, she was obeying the rule of the UK, where it was perfectly acceptable.

The two girls walked over to Vic's door. Camille looked impossibly elegant in her maxi dress. Pia looked a studied multi-colour pixel blizzard in her lemon-yellow sundress, with square neck and wide shoulder straps over her multi-panel Mondrian skinsuit, which hid the scars on her arms. Neon pink plastic ballerina flats, and her trademark pop-art bucket hat, completed the zany picture.

She took off her two-tone Marita sunnies to case the joint with a professional eye, noting the absence of security cameras and alarms. She put her finger to the doorbell, sang in English:

World, the time has come to (push the button)
World, my finger is on the button
My finger is on the button
My finger is on the button (push the button)

She pushed the button.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 60: Body Counts

"There's something I want to tell you. Both of you." Pia took off her sunglasses so they could see her eyes, but she looked out to sea so they couldn't. She leant on the railing in between Camille and Vic.

"Um, er," she began eloquently. "You know the phrase 'body count'?"

Vic glanced sideways, his expression flickering alertly, but not alarmed. He didn’t move, didn't crowd her. Just shifted his weight so his shoulder was near hers without touching.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It can mean different things, though. Depends who's saying it. And why.”

Camille, on Pia’s other side, didn’t speak right away. She just slipped her sunglasses off too, folding them with quiet precision and hanging one arm into the neckline of her dress. Her gaze stayed on Pia, not the sea. She nodded once, gently. “We’re listening, ma belle. Take your time.”

Now she had begun her story, Pia wanted to finish it quickly, before she could lose her nerve.

"There’s the modern sense of how many people you’ve slept with, as if it’s a bad thing. Some American boys use that as a way to slut-shame girls. The pathetic little misogynist shitbags!” She said suddenly and viciously. She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Sorry. Originally body count came from the Vietnam War. It meant how many people your platoon had killed. In that sense…" She hesitated...

"My body count is three… Men I've shot, during... Well, two of them were during a case in Beirut, drug smugglers. Rooftop chase. They were shooting at me and my partner. He was hit in the leg and I never got the stains out of my white jeans.”

She blew out a deep breath.

“The last one was my surf instructor in Hawaii.”

Pia was watching the Coogee surf, remembering those warm spring days at Waikiki, when the challenge of a new sport, and a different lifestyle, relaxed her and made her feel her life was finally changing for the better.

“I was lonely. He was attractive. Bronzed, buff, a smooth talker. That was part of what made him a good instructor, actually. We began a relationship. Things were okay at first. I thought I might have found a new life. But one night, after a date, he sexually assaulted me. He wanted to do it without protection. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. I fought him off with Krav Maga. He hit me with a lamp. Broke my arm. Adrenaline kept the pain away at first."

She stripped her left sleeve up to the elbow, displaying the scars.

"I grabbed my pistol. He jumped at me again, got his hands on my throat. I shot him three times. Then he died."

She turned around and leant back against the rail, daring gravity to take her. Her face was expressionless.

“I'm glad I killed him because he deserved it. It turned out during the investigation that I wasn't the first girl he'd done things to. But I was the last,” she said calmly. “I still think about his mother, though. She lost her son. I don't know how I feel about her.”

The breeze off the ocean kept blowing, gentle and salty, but the balcony felt utterly still.

Vic didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. He looked at the scars with quiet gravity, then back at Pia’s face. Not in horror, not in judgement, just a slow, heavy understanding settling across his features like dusk.

Camille’s breath caught softly, but when she exhaled it was quiet and steady. She reached over and laid two fingers lightly on Pia’s exposed forearm, just to give her human touch.

Vic finally moved. Only a little. His hand found the railing beside hers, his palm brushing the back of hers as if to say 'I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere unless you ask me to.'

His voice was low when he eventually spoke.

“You protected yourself. You survived. You did what you had to do. Pia... I’m so sorry that happened to you.” He shifted to face her more fully, his brows pulled together, not in pity, but in fierce empathy.

“Thank you for telling me. For trusting me.”

Camille’s voice was soft but certain, like velvet wrapped around steel. “Tu es incroyablement forte. I wish you hadn’t needed to be, but you are.”

A gust of breeze rolled over them, pulling the women’s dresses lightly around their legs. Vic studied Pia, her scars, her courage, her bare honesty in the morning sun.

“I want you in my life,” he said simply. “Even more now. I’m not scared of your truth. Just… I don’t take that lightly.” His eyes didn’t waver. “I won’t ever hurt you. I know you’re not ready to believe that yet. But one day, maybe you will.”

Pia looked calm but her voice was a bit wobbly. She reached out to take one of each of their hands, and looked them in the eyes.

"Now you both know the very worst things I've done. What I did to Hisashi, which was a stupid accident. And the fact that I'm a killer, even if it was self-defence. Thank you for listening, and for comforting me. And for believing in me."

Vic let her take his hand without hesitation, his fingers curling around hers gently, solid, warm, with a steady grip. Camille mirrored him on the other side, her hand cool and elegant but firm in Pia’s grasp, thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles like a grounding charm. They held her like an anchor line strung between them, with no judgement, no flinching, just human connection.

Vic met her eyes, steady and open. “There’s nothing about you that makes me want to walk away. Only things that make me want to stand closer.”

Camille nodded, her dark eyes gleaming. “You’re not just brave, Pia. You’re... whole. Even the broken bits, even the things you’re scared to say out loud, they’re part of a beautiful, complete woman. Not perfect, but powerful. Honest.” She squeezed Pia’s hand once. “And we’re lucky, that you let us in.”

Vic looked between them both, his eyes shining a little wetly in the salt-bright light.

“Okay,” he said, voice clearing slightly, like he was steadying himself too. “Now we go to the beach. Swim. Surf. Eat too much ice cream. Act normal. Because you’ve earned that. Not a moment of this day should be about anything except you being adored.”

He nodded toward the door with a small grin. “I’ve got snacks. Camille’s got glamour. You’ve got Rosalie. And I think the tide’s just turned.”

He lifted Pia’s hand to his lips, soft, brief, respectful, and added, quieter, just for her: “You are not just your past. You’re the one still standing. You’re the future.”

Pia smiled, though her eyes were wobbly. "There's a Japanese art called 'kintsugi'. It's a way of repairing a broken dish using veins of gold alloy as glue. When it's done well, the broken thing becomes more beautiful because of its golden scars. Maybe I can become like kintsugi.”

She heaved a deep breath and slapped her thighs. “Enough philosophy. Let's hit the beach! I reserved a parking space."

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 61: Krakens and TV Lego

But when they reached the beachside carpark, someone in a ute was backing into Pia’s reserved space. She leapt out in a sudden rage, brandishing her phone with the ticket on it like a weapon.

Vic had barely got his seatbelt off before Pia was already out of Rosalie, fury igniting her like a struck match. Her yellow sundress flared as she charged across the bitumen, phone held aloft like a flaming sword of justice. Her bucket hat bobbed wildly with every stride.

“Oi! Mate! That’s my space!”

The driver, mid-forties, sun-wrinkled, tattooed arm slung out the window, blinked at her like he’d just been assaulted by a talking ray of sunshine through a stained glass window. He paused mid-reverse.

Camille rolled down the passenger window, peering out with the cool detachment of royalty inconvenienced at customs. “We are clearly in the presence of a woman with receipts,” she called.

The man squinted at Pia’s phone. “Didn’t see no sign.”

“It’s online you drongo,” Pia snapped. “I paid in advance. Look, Booking reference 984721, time-stamped at 10:14 on Thursday morning. Do you want me to get the warden, or will you move? Or I’ll let you park and deflate all your tyres when you go away. Including the spare.”

There was a long silence.

Then the man let out a sigh, shifted the ute into drive, and grumbled, “Yeah, all right, keep your hat on.”

“Too late,” Pia muttered, victorious, flicking her hat back into place with extra drama as the ute pulled away.

Vic stepped out of the car slowly, trying not to laugh but failing. “Christ! You really don’t mess around with parking,” he murmured. Then, with a proud smile. “You are kintsugi, Pia. Gold veins and all. Also possibly terrifying in municipal matters.”

Camille popped her door open, swinging one leg out elegantly. “I love us. Now shall we go to ruin some lives with our swimwear?”

"But I wanted a proper fight," Pia muttered, apparently disappointed. She quickly cheered up, though, and helped unload all the beach stuff.

Vic searched the sun-drenched sand, shielding his eyes with one hand. Then he spotted them, Dan waving lazily with one arm like he was hailing a passing helicopter, Kiri half-hidden under a broad straw hat and a seafoam green sarong, perched cross-legged on a towel. And behind her, peering out with shy, blinking curiosity, was a little boy.

"Vic, introduce everyone," Pia whispered.

Vic smiled wide. “All right. Come on, I’ll do the honours.”

He led the girls down across the warm, packed sand, coolers swinging and umbrella bag tucked under his arm. As they reached the others, Dan rose to his full, formidable height, taller than Vic, shoulders like a rugby forward, and grinned.

“Oi, took you long enough! Sun’s nearly gone.” He squinted theatrically at the blazing sky.

Vic gave him a lazy salute. “Blame Pia. She had to argue with someone over a parking space. It was glorious.”

Dan chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

Kiri stood too, graceful and precise despite the soft sand. She had a quiet, luminous beauty, dark bob, oversized sunglasses, and the aura of someone who could de-escalate a border war using her mum voice.

Vic gestured broadly. “Everyone, this is Camille, our floating social compass and patron saint of style. This is Dan, my oldest mate, we’ve been embarrassing each other since high school. And that’s Kiri, who married him anyway. And that…” He crouched, smiling at the boy. “Is Leo. He’s got a wicked arm for a tennis ball and extremely serious opinions about ice cream. And this multi-colour clothing accident is Pia.”

Leo blinked up at Pia with wide, curious brown eyes and clutched the side of Kiri’s leg.

Kiri crouched beside him and whispered, “It’s okay, darling. Say hello?”

Leo half-hid, then mumbled, “Hullo,” into Kiri’s sarong.

Vic winked at Pia. “You have officially been greeted.”

Pia knelt in the sand to get to Leo's eye level. "Hello, Leo, I'm Pia. What do you like to do at the beach?"

Leo peeked out from behind Kiri’s leg again, still holding a handful of crushed biscuit crumbs in one small fist. His eyes, big and solemn under a mop of dark curls, studied Pia carefully, like she might be either a threat or a superhero. He considered her question very seriously. Then, in a tiny but firm voice, he said, “I like diggin’. An’ buryin’. An’ catchin’ water with my bucket but it always go away.”

Kiri hid a smile behind her hand.

Pia’s bucket hat seemed to intrigue him. He inched forward, pointing. “You got… a funny hat.”

Vic, standing behind her, grinned. “She does. It’s part of her superhero uniform.”

Leo lit up, just a little. “Are you a hero?”

Camille snorted from where she was lowering herself onto a towel. “Oh, you have no idea, mon petit.”

Leo, suddenly braver, looked up and announced, “I got shark shorts!” He turned and yanked at the side of his swim trunks with toddler pride. Indeed, tiny cartoon sharks grinned around his chubby legs.

Vic stage-whispered to Pia, “You’re in, now. Once he shows you the sharks, you’re family.”

"Wow! Those are cool shorts, Leo. I haven't got anything like that, just this skin suit." Pia took off her sundress and folded it neatly into her beach bag. Her skin suit was one body-hugging piece from neck to wrists and ankles, blocked out in red, white, blue, black and yellow rectangles of different sizes, all bordered by thin black lines.

Leo stared at Pia’s Mondrian skin suit with awed eyes like he was seeing a Transformer reveal its final form. “Whoa,” he breathed. “You look like… like TV Lego.”

Kiri gasped in horror. “Leo!”

But Pia hooted with laughter, and Camille nearly snorted hibiscus tea through her nose. Vic dropped onto his towel with a groan of delight.

“TV Lego. That’s it. We’ve found your true aesthetic.”

Dan leant back on his elbows, nodding sagely. “He’s not wrong, mate. You look like someone who’s about to deliver a TED Talk on subverting modern architecture and go on to win a beach sprint.”

Camille, reclining like a 1960s Bond girl, raised a brow approvingly. “Honestly, you pull it off. Very Piet Mondrian meets tactical spy chic. I’m shocked no one’s stolen your look yet.”

Leo tugged at Pia’s hand gently. “Can you come and dig with me?”

Kiri smiled apologetically. “He doesn’t usually take to people this quickly.”

Vic glanced sideways at Pia, eyes soft. “Yeah, well. Neither do I.”

"I'd love to, Leo!" Pia mouthed to Kiri, "Is it okay?"

Kiri nodded, touched by the gesture. She leant in slightly and mouthed back, “Yes. Thank you.” Then, with a quiet smile: “He’s usually so shy.”

The emboldened Leo toddled over to a patch of sand short of the tide line, plopping down with his little blue bucket and a bright yellow shovel that was missing a bite of the blade. Pia joined him, folding her long legs neatly beneath her, somehow managing to look composed even in the chaos of toddler beach play. Leo immediately began to demonstrate his expert technique of digging “a really big hole for the sea to fall in.” Vic watched the scene from a short distance, chin resting on his arms as he lay face down. His expression was somewhere between awe and quiet affection, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Look at her,” he said to Dan, low and amused. “Ten minutes ago, she was threatening a ute driver with total tyre deflation. Now she’s building a sand castle with a toddler. She’s...” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Camille, sipping from a hip flask she had sneakily tucked into a cooler, finished it for him: “She’s wonderful. Don’t mess it up.”

Pia helped Leo with her hands. "When I was little I played on the beach with my brother. We made sand castles and dams. And we caught crabs in rock pools, and ate sandwiches with sand in them. And it often rained."

Leo squinted up at her, eyes wide. “You got a brother? Where is he?”

He was patting down the sides of their enormous, uneven moat with comically delicate little splats, his tongue sticking out in concentration. The sea was creeping in, waves edging closer, threatening their masterpiece. Pia’s hands worked fast and sure beside his, smoothing, reinforcing, teaching by doing.

“He’s a long way away, Leo. I hope he’ll visit me soon."

Kiri watched from the towels, her face soft. Camille offered her a handful of olives with a murmured, "She's very good with children, non?”

Vic couldn’t stop watching Pia, not in a possessive way, just… transfixed. The way she had folded herself into this boy’s little world without changing it. Without making it about her. Just being there.

Leo, pausing mid-shovel, handed her a bucketful of sea water. “Do you like rain?”

Vic cupped his hands and called, “Oi! Make sure there’s enough room in that castle for a decent-sized kraken!”

Dan groaned. “Please don’t teach my son any more about krakens, Vic. I just got him sleeping through the night.”

Leo gasped. “Where’s the kraken?”

Vic stage-whispered, “Ask Pia. She’s probably fought one.”

The boy’s eyes went huge. He turned back to Pia, agog. “Did you?”

"I'm a lover, not a fighter, Leo. And the rain was okay. English people, that's like me, with my funny voice, we just pretend it isn't raining.” She put a scallop shell on the highest turret like a flag. “The castle’s finished. Do you want to have something to drink and watch the tide come in, Leo?"

Leo nodded solemnly, as if rain denial was a profound cultural rite he had just been initiated into.

“You do talk funny,” he agreed matter-of-factly, then added generously, “but it’s nice.” He looked down at their squiggly moats, walls and turrets, now fortified with shells and a surprisingly sophisticated drainage system that Pia had engineered with a segment of coconut husk. He gave a satisfied grunt. “We done. Kraken gonna love it.” Then he stood with a wobble and wiped his sandy hands on his shark shorts.

“I want juice.”

<<To be continued...>>